Economic Depression
by crystal-chan
Summary: Globalization means that these days, when one nation feels the effects, they all do. Italy can't forget, Germany doesn't remember, and everyone else is just scrambling to get by. A Germany is HRE story.
1. Lonely Nightmare

Welcome, all, to my frightening little NaNoWriMo project! :D

Setting: Either the very near future or last winter when this recession was just getting started. Take your pick. Suggestions for filling this in are welcome.

Just as a warning, I'm still in the process of writing this so It is _very_ subject to change. I may have to delete and rewrite entire scenes as I go in order to prevent writer's block, so if that'll bother you you might want to wait for november to be over before you start reading his. heh.

Other warnings include: language, angst, shounen-ai, implied sex, and general Hetalia style insanity,

Please review! It'll help me finish this little monster faster. (currently going at a rate of about 1000 words a day, including what gets deleted later)

* * *

_He didn't know where he was, didn't know why everything looked bigger and brighter than it should, but the world was warm and familiar and __green__ in a way it had not been since forever. He couldn't help but feel comforted in this place._

_"Italy," the only person he'd ever really loved was calling his name. His mind moved like mush, trying to tell him that there was something wrong here but for the life of him he couldn't imagine what. Italy smiled and waved that person over, watching the sun glint blindingly off blond hair. "Italy," the boy repeated once he was much closer, a bit out of breath. His voice sounded strained, as though he were upset about something. Italy twisted his hands in his apron—why was he wearing an apron?—but didn't drop his smile. He owed it to that person to smile always. _

_"Is something wrong?" He asked tentatively, needing to make sure the one he loved was alright, and wondering just why he felt so desperate to do so. Blue eyes stared into his own, frozen and dead in a way that terrified him. He choked back the strange urge to cry and reached out—were his hands smaller than usual?—for that person. Why did his heart suddenly hurt so much?_

_"Join me, Italy."His breath froze in his chest upon hearing those words. He wanted to say a hundred different things at once, couldn't remember why this decision was so hard. Hadn't Grandpa Rome told him over and over again he shouldn't? He'd always obeyed Grandpa Rome before. And besides, he didn't want to see those blue eyes full of pain like Grandpa's were. Maybe it was selfish, but he didn't think he could stand to see that person hurt._

_"I can't." The words came out reluctantly, hindered by an unbidden sob as he stepped away—what are you saying, you idiot!—but he didn't understand why. "I promised Grandpa I wouldn't…" The one he loved didn't get angry like he should have, merely sighed and turned away. He didn't ask for a reason or beg Italy to change his mind like he usually might, and that hurt him more than it should have. "Wait!" he shouted, not knowing the reason why he felt so very frantic, or the origin of the tears streaming down his face. "Don't leave me." He sounded pathetic as he reached out for that person's shoulder, didn't know why he should act this way. Didn't this kind of proposal and subsequent refusal happen all the time?_

_"It's too late." His voice sounded strange and when the blond turned around Italy understood why. He could do nothing but watch as that beautiful face was marred bruise by bruise, blood seeping from a fatal wound in the chest. "You've had your chance." He was horrified as he watched more and more wounds open, blood trickling down until everything was red, red. He thought he would be suffocated by it. The one he loved finally fell to the ground and Italy was immediately by his side, working to see through the haze of tears and the crimson that was trying to blind him. _

_"Why are you crying?"Austria's voice floated to him through the madness. Italy whirled around to see the aristocrat standing there, arms folded, as unruffled as he ever was. His head reeled with confusion, didn't know why Austria wouldn't be able to see the child-nation dying in front of him._

_"Help!" he sobbed, hugging the barely breathing body as close as the laws of physics would allow. Austria simply frowned and gave him a look that made him feel like the he couldn't possibly be any more stupid. "He's going to die!" he shouted as it became apparent Austria planned to do nothing. He didn't understand!_

_"Shouldn't you be glad?" Austria sent him the sneer he usually reserved for those he was at war with, and Italy felt a part of himself die seeing the one who had raised him look like that. "You're the one who killed him, after all."_

_"What?! No! I…" The world was turning red, edges of his vision burning black as he tried to remember how to breathe. The person he loved was dying in his arms and there was nothing he could do._

_"If only…" the fragile form in his arms coughed and immediately Italy's attention was on him and only him. He was praying, begging God to let this please come out ok. "If only you had joined me, maybe I would have been strong enough to…" Italy felt his eyes grow wide, each beat of his heart more painful than the last. _

_"See," Austria's tone was full of more venom than it had ever been before, accusing him, hating him. More and more of his friends and were appearing as the seconds ticked by—Hungary, Romano, Japan—all of them glaring at him with hate filled eyes. "You killed him!" they all shouted as one, and Italy felt something inside himself shatter. _

_"No…. I…. I only wanted to keep him safe!" he screamed back, scanning every face for even one sympathetic look, but he found none. "That's—that's all I ever wanted."Italy sobbed as he buried his face in blond hair, his world echoing with the sound of that person's labored breaths. Each one took longer than the last and he knew—God this wasn't __fair__. Why was this happening?—that the boy in his embrace wasn't long for this world. He would give anything to make that truth a lie. _

_"Italy?" Blue eyes were looking up at him, a stark contrast against the red that covered everything else. That gaze looked confused and full of pain. It was all Italy could do to keep breathing._

_"Yes?" He choked, hardly able to hear over the thoughts racing through his mind. He didn't know how to deal with this, couldn't face even the idea of the one he loved dying. He could scarcely begin to fathom what that meant. _

_"I've always loved you."The pain in his heart increased tenfold. His mind was left stuttering in the agony and he didn't even have the presence of mind to reply. He could only stare in horror at the trickle of red slipping out from behind pale lips. "So why…?" There was no condemnation in those eyes as they faded away, but Italy had never felt more to blame. The blond became lighter and lighter in his grasp, body growing less substantial until there was nothing left—as if he had never even been there at all. Italy kept staring until the world came back into focus, but once it did he could do nothing but cry out._

_His hands were covered in blood._

Italy woke to the sound of his own screaming. He jerked awake, fought with his blankets in an attempt to sit up as quickly as possible. He felt like he was suffocating, breath coming to him in short gasps as he tried to find his sanity again. His hand shook as he tried to wipe away the lingering tears, whole body shuttering with exhaustion and emotional pain. It had been the same dream again, he mused despondently as he tried to force his emotions to obey. The same nightmare that had been plaguing him for over a week. He'd had similar dreams every once in a while; the death of… of that person wasn't something he'd been able to handle very well. But it had never been as bad as this.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, ignored the ache that simple action caused, sat there and just tried to _breathe _for a moment. He didn't know if he could keep going like this. The dreams only seemed to be getting more vivid every night and Italy was finding it harder and harder to get out of bed every morning with the sounds of his friends' condemnation still ringing in his ears. He buried his face in his hands and worked to put the memories back where they belonged, hiding them behind a wall of repression. He couldn't bear to think about this anymore or he was going to go mad.

The cell phone rang shrilly from its place at Italy's bedside and to his shell-shocked mind it almost sounded like an anguished scream. He just about jumped out of his skin at first, had to sit there staring at it as it rang for a few moments before he could make his way out of the nightmares again. It wasn't until the third ring that he realized he should probably answer it.

"Hello?" His voice didn't sound like it should—was a little too rough to be explained by the last night's screaming alone, and lacked his usual happy-go-lucky front.

"Feliciano? Is that you?" Ah. Lovino. The younger brother threaded his fingers though his hair and tried to force his mask back into place. The last thing he needed was a worried Lovino tearing across Europe and seeing him like this. His older brother deserved to be happy, and how could he if Feliciano was dragging him back home all the time just because of a couple nightmares? No, much better to keep Lovino in the dark.

"Lovi!" he shouted as best he was able, wincing as his head pounded. He hadn't noticed the ache before in the wake of everything else, but his high-volume façade made it all too obvious. "How's Spain?" There was a pause a bit more prolonged than usual and Feliciano wondered vaguely if something had happened between his brother and Antonio.

"Spain is… fine" the other nation actually avoided insulting his admirer for once. Despite his hellish morning, Feliciano couldn't help the smile that ghosted his lips. Something was definitely going on. He could hear the happiness in his brother's tone, and he couldn't help but share in that bliss. This was why he needed to get used to living alone… Lovino deserved to be able to stay in Spain with the one he loved. "But I didn't call to talk about the tomato bastard," somehow when Lovino said it, it sounded more like an endearment than an offense. "I called to make sure you were ok." Ah. He'd been afraid of that.

"What are you talking about Lovi?" He half-sang, grimacing as his voice wavered. He was beginning to feel the chill-heat of fever creep down his spine, but he wasn't about to admit that to his older brother. He'd had enough trouble trying to convince Romano that it would be alright to leave. "I'm just fine on my own." There was a derisive snort on the other end of the line, the kind that told Feliciano just what his brother thought of _that_ statement. He refused to admit to himself that scorn hurt.

"You never have been before, Feliciano. You're always running off to stay with your friends rather than be alone." He knew the words were not meant to wound, but he couldn't deny the pain he felt upon hearing them. He knew he had an issue with being alone, was always looking for someone to fill the void that… that the one he loved had left behind. Because when he was alone the only things he had to think about were his own failures.

"I…" He felt at a loss for words. He knew he wasn't ok with this, knew he couldn't possibly handle the long silences and the empty rooms. But what could he do? He couldn't go to any of his friends. They were all tied up with the recent crisis, didn't have time for him anymore. No one seemed to have time for him anymore. Now his brother had found someone else to spend his time with, and even Germany… Pain twisted in his stomach at the thought of the way the blond had been ignoring him lately and he made the mistake of whimpering aloud.

"Feliciano…?" Lovino sounded really worried now and he knew he had to do something before Spain was short one guest.

"I'm fine." He tried to sound reassuring, but he was too busy trying to keep the tears at bay to be truly convincing. There was no way he could have fooled his brother with such a weak attempt. He would have been in trouble had Spain not chosen that moment to do something lewd.

"God help me Antonio, I will _end _you!" His brother shouted without moving the phone away, Spain's chuckles drifting to him strangely over the airwaves. Feliciano nearly doubled over in pain at the sudden increase in volume and only just managed to keep himself from crying out. He supposed he should be glad for Spain's timely distraction, but he would have appreciated it more if it had been a little quieter. "Anyway, I was just going to say that I've got a few…things… I need to…." Was that… was Lovino actually _flustered_? Feliciano had to laugh in spite of the tears still threatening to fall. "Oh, shut up. Why the hell was I worried about you anyway!?" Lovino huffed. "I'm going to be here longer than I thought. So don't do anything stupid, _idioto_." Ah. So it began. He knew the day would come when Lovino finally figured out where he belonged. His older brother would come back home less and less until eventually…

"Aw, you're trying to take care of me." He sang into the phone; it was the best way to hide the wavering of his voice. He could feel himself getting weaker and he didn't know if he could keep up this act for much longer. He had to get Lovino off the line. And the best way to do that was to make him angry. "I'll be just fine without you, _Mamma_."

"What the hell?!" Really, did his brother _always_ have to shout? "That's it, Feliciano. See if I care about you ever again. I have better things to be doing than—"

"Like Antonio?" he drawled out the last word, knowing that the jibe would send Lovino over the edge. If he was lucky, his brother might not call for another week or so. He must have been loud enough for Spain to hear, or Lovino had him on speaker phone because for a while all he could hear was the tan nation's joyous laughter.

"_Che cosa_?! How did you…I—I never….! Wha…? ARG!" That would never get old, Feliciano quickly decided. He'd have to embarrass his brother on a much more frequent basis once he felt better. "That's it! I'm never calling you again!" and with that, he could finally put the phone down.  
With no one to see his mask fall, he could take a few seconds to breathe. The nightmare sat mostly forgotten at the back of his mind but now he had a problem of a different sort. It had been cemented. Lovino was finally leaving him, and he didn't know what to do. Despite his assurances, he didn't know _how_ to live alone.

Italy sighed as he flipped the phone closed and dropped it back onto the bedside table. His entire body hurt, headache had only seemed to get worse in the time he'd been awake, and he felt _exhausted _from that night of nightmares. He didn't know why he felt so awful. Recessions usually didn't hit him as hard as this, but he supposed it _had_ been a particularly bad one. And it wasn't like he'd been taking care of himself very well. He lay back against the pillows stacked on his bed and curled up for warmth. The dreams had woken him up much too early. It was his policy to never leave bed until at least nine o'clock, and one he had been breaking far too often lately. He just wanted to go back to sleep and dream the days away until this mess was over. Maybe people would have time for him then. Italy closed his eyes and let himself relax, eager to return to unconscious bliss.

"_I always loved you" _The voice echoed to him from the edge of dreams and Italy bolted awake. He stood as quickly as he was able, swaying as the room swerved beneath him. He couldn't do this. Illness be damned, he didn't think he'd be able to stand even one more moment alone in this room with his sanity intact. Resting was out of the question when nightmares like that stubbornly refused to leave him alone.

He pulled his clothes on, wincing with every movement of his head as the world shifted and turned, but he managed. He might have been weak when it came to wars, but he was more than capable of holding his own against a stupid cold. He'd worked through worse recessions than this one. He probably should have been working right now too, except that his current boss didn't trust him with any of the important stuff. Italy didn't blame him. He knew he was pretty useless most of the time. Only half of that was a mask.

It took a bit longer than usual to make his way down to the kitchen. He was running on automatic, mind going completely blank every once in a while so that he had to constantly remind himself what it was he was trying to do. He blacked out somewhere in between brushing his teeth and walking down the stairs and before he knew it he was curled up on the kitchen floor, forehead pressed to the cool surface, without knowing how he'd gotten there. Italy groaned once he realized where he was, forced himself back on to his feet to make his way over to the drawer with the medicine in it. He was going to be completely useless all day unless he could beat the pain and the fever that were clouding his mind.

He fiddled with the cap on the ibuprofen, fought with it for almost five minutes before the tiny capsules finally spilled out. The dazed nation managed to catch a few, but most just fell on the floor. Italy stood there staring at them for some time before moving sluggishly to the sink, pouring himself some water, and swallowing whatever he had clenched in his fist at the moment. Probably not the smartest idea, but Italy just wanted the aching and the memories and the way the room was spinning to _stop_.

Feliciano dropped the glass into the sink, didn't care when it cracked at the rough treatment. He supposed he should eat something, but even the thought of his beloved pasta only turned his stomach. Maybe that was a problem; he hadn't been eating much since Lovino left. What was the point? For him, food was largely about sharing it with those you cared about and there wasn't exactly anyone around. Besides, what with the recession on he wasn't sure he could stomach much more than some soup anyway. And he was much too tired right now to think about putting that much effort into cooking.

Instead he dragged himself into the living room, fell onto the couch, and reached for the remote. He would wait for the medicine to kick in, and then he would figure out what to do with himself for the rest of the day. But if he had to sit around in silence with nothing but the demons of his own mind to torment him he was going to scream. Italy flipped on the TV, turned it up just loud enough that he couldn't hear his own thoughts, and settled down to wait.

* * *

"Lovino?" Spain looked on in confusion as his lover hung up the phone. The Italian had gone immediately from angry to worried, and he wasn't quite sure what to make of it.

"Something's wrong." Romano had the same look he usually did when he was taking care of "family business." He may have acted stupid half the time, but Spain knew he wasn't really. He was capable of being much more serious and perceptive than he let on. Antonio just wished for Lovino's sake that he didn't have to be. He hated to see that face frown. It made him want to hold the Italian in his arms and protect him from everything, like he had so many years ago.

"What is it?" he coaxed as he pulled the brunette back down to the pillows and his embrace. It truly said something that Romano allowed himself to be led. Not a month ago he would never have allowed Spain to hold him like this.

"My idiot brother." He muttered, curling himself around the one he loved for comfort. Spain took one look into those eyes and melted, just as he always did. _Dios mio_ he loved this man. "He's hurting, and I don't know why." He didn't doubt Romano for a second, but he was a little confused. He'd heard Feliciano from here during that phone call—neither Italian was ever very quiet—and he hadn't sounded very hurt.

"What makes you think—"

"He answered the phone." It was a strange reason to be suspicious. Usually, people got worried when the opposite was true. His confusion must have been written on his face because Romano went on to say, "It is barely five in the morning. Feliciano _never_ gets out of bed this early. Not even if his phone is ringing." Spain had to agree with the younger Italian brother in that respect. Waking up this early in the morning was practically a sin.

"Why did you call this early if you thought he wouldn't answer?"

"I needed to leave a message. I suspected we wouldn't have time later." Antonio grimaced at the reminder that they actually had to _work_ today. He really didn't feel like moving just yet, but the plane left soon and they really did have to get ready…he pulled Romano closer.

"Maybe he had work to do today too?" he suggested, knowing how his lover would worry until he figured out this little mystery. The brunette's expression didn't change.

"He'd been crying." _That_ threw Spain off a little. The thought of Feliciano crying, real tears and not one of those silly waterfall displays, was so foreign that he couldn't wrap his mind around it. "I could hear it. He thinks he can fool me, but I always know." Spain combed his fingers through soft hair and tried to calm his Italian down. Romano was really upset at the thought of his brother hurting, even if he acted like he didn't care half the time.

"I'm sure he'll be okay," Antonio suggested, trying to lessen the pain he could see in Lovino's eyes. "Maybe it was something stupid, like he burnt breakfast or something." His attempt to cool Romano off seemed to be having the opposite effect. All it got him was a thwack in the arm.

"Look, I _know_ my brother, alright? He shouldn't have been awake, he shouldn't have been crying and acting like everything was ok, and he shouldn't have been home at all!"

"I'm not following you, Lovi." He rubbed down the smooth skin of his lover's back as he spoke, working all the tense muscles beneath his palms. Romano became a boneless mass against his chest, but his eyes were no less worried. "Why is it a bad thing if he's at home? I thought you hated his friends." The man in his arms sighed.

"As much as I don't like those dolts, they're better for him than being alone." Romano's grumbling was barely audible but after decades upon decades of living with him, Spain was able to understand it easily enough. "Feliciano can't stand being by himself. He's never really been alone for a long period of time in his whole life. But now…He hasn't left the house in a week."

"You called his cell, didn't you? How do you know he hasn't left?" Romano scoffed

"Like he'd actually remember to bring his cell phone with him. Damn thing doesn't do anything but sit next to his bed all day." Spain sighed, trying to think of some way to help. Lovino wasn't going to budge on this one.

"Perhaps it would be best to call a few of Feliciano's friends and have them look in on him?" He would offer to fly to Italy himself, but this meeting was really important for the both of them and they needed to be there. Romano sighed before burying his face in Spain's chest.

"Yeah… you're right," he grumbled sullenly, upset at the prospect of asking those he disliked for help. Antonio smiled down at the lithe body pressed against his own and kissed the crown of Lovino's head.

"Come on, best to get moving then. We have a flight to catch."

* * *

He woke very early, as he always did. But this time, he was sorely tempted to just go back to sleep. The light coming in through the blinds hurt his eyes something awful, and the strange position he found himself in hadn't exactly been comfortable all night.

"We-est," Something annoying was poking him in the forehead. He decided to ignore it in favor of covering his head with his arms and trying to go back to sleep. "West!" the voice was insistent, but it was also painful. Germany decided to stick to his guns, gave an unhappy groan, and didn't budge. The surface he was somewhat laying on was not comfortable, but he'd be damned if he was moving _anywhere_ when he felt like this. He was going to be staying right where he was, thank you very much.

Or at least, that _had_ been his plan. Until his brother decided to pour a cup of ice water down his shirt.

"_Scheiße_!" The usually cool-headed nation swore as he stood, ice cubes scattering across the room to the tune of Gilbert's laughter. There wasn't really much he could do about that at the moment though. His head was _not_ happy with such sudden movement, and was protesting as loudly as possible. "Ugh," he groaned as he fell back into the wooden chair that had apparently served as his bed last night, ignored the small puddle of drool on the table where his mouth had been.

"Good morning, West." Prussia was beaming down at him, oddly chipper at this early hour. Germany suspected it had something to do with his current state of misery. Freaking sadistic is what that idiot was.

"I will get you back for this." He growled as he cradled his head, kept his eyes tightly closed. Gilbert just laughed and laughed until he felt like his head was rattling with the sound.

"You have a phone call, brother dear." Ludwig glared ineffectively out at the world from beneath the shadow of his arm. Belatedly, he noticed the small device in the silver haired nation's hand. He snatched it with a fumbling, inelegant motion that set Gilbert off on another of his giggle-fests.

"'lo?" he grunted, trying to ignore the brother who was now laughing madly as he searched through the cabinets for something. Honestly. If they weren't technically the same country right now, he would have gone to war with Prussia for this.

"Germany?" Austria's sharp tones greeted him and the blond frowned in confusion. Why would Austria be calling him first thing in the morning?

"Hmm?" It wasn't a very elegant response, to be sure. But he didn't think it warranted Gilbert's cackling reaction.

"Are you alright?" Austria actually sounded worried.

"Wonderful." He was sure that the older nation could hear the liberal amount of sarcasm dripping from every syllable. And he still hadn't figured out why the hell Austria was calling him this early in the first place.

"Germany, I hope you have not forgotten our meeting today?" Ludwig glared at the empty air and cursed his stupid decision to drink all that beer last night. The meeting, right. That meant his plane was leaving in—he squinted at his watch—an hour and a half.

_Scheiße_ indeed.

"No, I didn't forget." He lied as he pulled himself up off the table and tried valiantly to ignore the snickering of his older brother. Gilbert was kind enough to hand him a glass of something with a handful of Tylenol, and Germany took it gratefully. Even if whatever the red substance in the cup was, was quite possibly one of the most disgusting things he'd ever drunk in his life. He pinched his nose as he downed the stuff, holding the phone a bit away from himself so that Austria wouldn't be able to hear him gulping it down.

"Good. Switzerland mentioned something about a drinking party last night, so I was worried." Ah, so that was why he was getting this early morning wake-up call. That traitor. They were drinking buddies whenever there was a recession, had been for a while. "I… Seriously, though. You don't sound well. Are you sure you're ok, Germany?" Austria sounded truly concerned and Ludwig had to wonder why. Every once in a while the aristocratic nation got all… parental like this. It always confused him when it happened, but he always had to give into that tone.

"It's just the recession," he murmured, feeling embarrassed. He couldn't help it if economic depressions made him a little, well… depressed. Most nations got colds. He and a few others like Switzerland didn't. They just got thrown into a workaholic slump until things started looking better again. Hence the drinking.

"Ah. I see." Austria sounded somewhat sympathetic. Come to think of it, he hadn't heard Austria sniffling lately. Perhaps the music-loving nation really _did_ understand.

"Did you need anything else?" He was growing impatient with this conversation. It was vaguely uncomfortable, he wasn't used to having people try to take care of him, and he was running late besides.

"No. I assume I will see you later this morning?"

"Of course." Germany was already walking, as quickly as he was able in his hindered state, toward the shower. He smelled like beer. Lots and _lots_ of beer. He didn't think Austria would particularly appreciate it if he showed up smelling of alcohol and wearing the same rumpled clothing as yesterday.

"Then we will speak of this when you arrive. Goodbye, Germany."

"_Auf Wiedersehen_." He flipped the phone closed just as he got to the bathroom, placed it on the side of the sink and set to work peeling off his nasty clothing. The hot water felt heavenly on his skin as he stepped into the shower. He could feel the drops relaxing his every muscle; the Tylenol seemed to be kicking in and he could actually _think_ again for the first time that morning.

He really had drunk _way_ too much last night. He didn't really remember much of the evening after the forth stein or so, let alone how he'd managed to get home. Germany had to admit he was a little ashamed of himself. He wasn't usually so prone to excess. It was just that with visions of the past haunting him like this, he didn't know what else to do. He didn't really have anyone he could talk to about this. Well… he supposed that was a lie. Italy had always been a source of comfort to him through the years they'd been friends. But he didn't dare burden the happy-go-lucky nation with these heavy thoughts. Many were memories of the Second World War, watching as those in control of him blamed and tortured whoever was convenient. It was an effective policy as far as politics went, but _Gott_ it had hurt—the Jews and others killed were _German_; as German as the ones who so fervently hunted them down. He still berated himself for not doing more to put a stop to that. He wasn't quite sure what would happen if he said any of this to Italy. He suspected it might just lead to Feliciano hating him as much as he hated himself. And he—he wouldn't be able to bear that. So he'd been avoiding the nation. At least until this mess was sorted out and his thoughts were under his control again.

"Hey." Germany jumped about a foot in the air when the shower curtain pulled back to reveal his brother's face. "I almost forgot to tell you, you had another call this morn—"

"What the _hell_!?" He may not have been a prude, but that didn't mean he was used to people randomly barging into his shower.

"What?" Prussia had the nerve to look completely innocent, hid the smirk he wanted to display quite well under befuddlement. "What are you so upset about?"

"Gilbert, I am taking a _shower_ in case you hadn't noticed." He ground out, secretly thankful for the reprieve from his own thoughts. It was getting to the point where he would rather have his mind fogged up with the hangover than have to worry about everything.

"So? It's nothing I haven't seen before." Germany opened his mouth to protest but his brother beat him to it. "I helped you with your bath when you were little, you know. You were so cute!" He resisted the urge to remind the idiot that they hadn't known each other until Germany was already too old to need any help with his bath, because the implications of that statement were more than a little disturbing.

"Thanks for that. That's really what I wanted to think about right now." He grumbled, yanking the curtain out of his brother's hand and closing the shower once more. Prussia just laughed.

"Besides, my five meters is much more awesome than—"

"Don't really want to hear about it!" The headache that had swiftly been retreating was coming back thanks to Prussia's interference. Germany scrubbed harder and wondered why the hell his brother was so infuriating. He glanced at the shadow on the shower curtain. It hadn't budged. "Is there a _reason_ for you to be standing in here while I shower or have you just been hanging out too much with France lately?"

"Hey! I'm not a pervert like that egotistical—"

"A reason, please, Gilbert."

"Right," Prussia sighed, sounding like Germany had sucked all of the fun out of the world. "Romano called while you were asleep." Ludwig groaned and resisted the urge to hit his head against the wall of the shower. That was the last thing he needed right now—the older Italian's whining was not something he particularly wanted to hear while hung over. "Only reason I woke up this early, the jerk. Why do you have your cell volume up so high anyway?"

"What did he want?" he sighed, only half-way listening. He was taking too much time with this shower. He needed to be on his way to the airport by now.

"I didn't answer it." Prussia sounded positively horrified at the thought. Germany had to laugh. Of all things for his brother to be afraid of… maybe he'd slip this information to Romano at the next meeting. "But in the message he said—"

"Why were you going through my messages?!"

"Well it might have been important!" He highly doubted that. "And I didn't think you particularly _wanted_ me waking you up at five thirty in the morning so that you could do it yourself." Wow, did that mean Gilbert had actually done something considerate for once? Perish the thought. "He wanted to know if you'd heard from Italy lately."

The question sent a pang of worry and self-contempt through his heart. No, he hadn't seen Italy since the financial crisis began. He'd gotten a few calls in the beginning, but what with his thoughts taking the direction they were… he hadn't particularly wanted to see his best friend. Eventually the calls stopped coming, and to be honest, he hadn't even noticed. There'd been too much else to think about. But if Romano were desperate enough to be calling him… something was wrong.

"I'll call him back later," he murmured as he turned the faucet off. There wasn't time to dwell on it at the moment. He had to be leaving about now. "Now can you please leave so I can get dressed?" Gilbert's cackles filled the room for what had to be the hundredth time that morning, but he was finally left in peace. He wondered; if he severely maimed Prussia, would it count as civil war?


	2. Going Out

Wow! I've gotten so many positive reviews so far, I was really quite surprised! Thanks guys. :) Keep 'em coming! haha.

Not completely sure how I feel about this chapter just yet, but I was EXTREMELY proud of myself for getting it out there so quickly. I said I'd get it out in a week, and I did! Now don't get used to it, because that's not likely to ever happen again. Lol

I don't own Hetalia, yadda yadda.

Tell me what you think!

*Edit 12/01/09* I have officially had to move the setting to a recession in the very near future, due to laziness and inability to conform my fic to current happenings. XD Hope that doesn't put you guys off too much. I tried to keep it as politically realistic as possible, but the politics are secondary to the plot, so... eh.

* * *

Italy stared at the television through half-lidded eyes as he flipped through the channels aimlessly, not really sure why he was still lying here. The medicine had kicked in more than an hour ago, though the TV hadn't helped much. The glaring lights of moving pictures made his eyes water something awful, but he'd take that over his own thoughts any day. Besides, it wasn't like he had anything else to do. Their boss had Lovino doing most of the work, hence the reason his brother had gone to Spain in the first place. He supposed he could go back and clean up the mess he'd left in his kitchen, but he really couldn't care less at the moment. He'd get it later. As long as he had it cleaned before Romano got home, it would be fine.

His random channel surfing eventually led him to the news, and he settled down to watch. If it was boring enough he could fall asleep, and hopefully with the noise in the background he wouldn't fall under deep enough to dream. The reporter droned on and on about taxes and interest rates, something that he'd never really pretended to understand. It was more than enough to bore him.

_ "…last week, when the leaders of Germany and Japan met to discuss the recent economic crisis." _His eyelids had been fluttering closed when the phrase caught his ear, but they immediately shot back open. "_Policies of protection in auto-production, and what might be done to sustain the industry in the best way for both countries were discussed over the weekend, though nothing was decided definitively." _Italy stared as the announcer went on and on, couldn't really bring himself to pay much attention to the words being said. Instead he was busy watching the background like a hawk, wanting to know, _needing_ to know if his friends had been there. They were his best friends. Surely they would have told him if they were having a meeting... wouldn't they? The clip was a bit blurred, didn't really focus on much but the leaders of the two countries, but he searched all the same. He had to know, even if it would hurt to see the truth. Just before the newscaster switched over to another topic, the camera panned out and Italy saw them. They stood quietly off to one side, speaking in hushed tones.

Feliciano shattered. The remote dropped from his fingers and he turned away from the TV, burying his face as deeply into the couch as he could. He just—he didn't know what to do. He'd thought that maybe they were avoiding him, but he'd been willing to chock that up to the recent crisis if only for the sake of his sanity. Now he couldn't deny it. He'd always had nightmares about this—had always known, in the back of his mind, that they would leave him behind. It wasn't a secret that he was pretty useless, not just as a nation but as an individual. Whenever he was around, anyone nearby found it hard to get anything done. He was weak, forgetful, ditsy, and a coward. He put on a happy face and acted like he didn't care most of the time, but secretly he'd always wondered what made Germany take him in with open arms again and again. Maybe he had finally figured out what everyone else always knew; that he was annoying, always getting himself into trouble, and generally not worth dealing with. It was probably for the best. Germany didn't deserve to have him always holding them back.

Still… Italy knew he shouldn't feel jealous like this, he had no right to. But he couldn't help it. The last couple of times he'd called Ludwig, he had been told politely that the nation didn't have time to hang out at the moment. He'd been disappointed, but he understood. Maybe after this mess was over, they could visit again. He could understand that everyone had a lot to do; knew that in the grand scheme of things he wasn't a very important part of Germany's schedule. But to see him there with Japan… It was just—he had a pretty important car industry too, why hadn't they—why… He curled in on himself, burying his face in his hands in an attempt to stifle the tears. He knew exactly why.

Italy tried to breathe, to will the sorrow away but he just couldn't do it. His world was falling apart at the seams, all economic problems aside, and he wasn't sure what to think. Despite it all, he'd wanted more than anything to believe that he could stay close to his friends forever. Now that he really, truly realized it had all been a lie, he didn't know what to do with himself. He let his arms drop, stared blankly up at the ceiling as he bit back his sobs. He'd known this was coming for a long time, had encouraged his brother's romance and given his friends the space he thought they needed. So why did it feel as though he'd lost everything in one day? And why did his thoughts keep turning back to Ludwig? Maybe it was because…

"_Idioto_," he murmured to himself, angry once he realized what the real problem was. He felt the loss of Germany more than anything else because… he just might… He'd never really allowed himself to love anyone after Hol—after the last time. But when he was with Ludwig he'd thought—he'd almost felt... it almost felt like that horrible hole in his heart, the one that hundreds of thousands of empty days and empty smiles couldn't fill, was gone. Ludwig made it so hard _not_ to love. Italy bit his lip and tried to push the pain in his heart back under. It was time to face the facts. He hadn't deserved his first love, and perhaps it was good that he was being denied the second. He didn't think he'd be able to stand it if Germany got hurt because of him.

"_You killed him!"_The accusation rang through the silence, had him jerking up and looking around wildly before he realized the words were only his in his own mind. _Dio_, he couldn't do this. He was going _crazy!_ He had to have some kind of human interaction, some kind of assurance that he wasn't doomed to be completely and totally alone in this world for the rest of his existence if he was going to be even remotely sane by the time his brother came back. And… he wanted to see Germany. It was selfish. It would mean interrupting everyone else's day for nothing but the sake of his own peace of mind. But at this point… Damn it, he was sick, he was lonely, and if he had to spend even _one_ more second in this house he was going to kill himself. Maybe he deserved to be a little selfish, even it would only add to how annoying they thought he was. He could—he could make this the last time. He could use this last visit to prepare himself to be left behind.

Italy convinced himself of that; promised the empty air that this was the last time he would be a burden to anyone and forced himself back on his feet. He pressed the off button for the TV with a violence he wasn't usually capable of and turned on his heel. His head swam as he stormed back to his room for his wallet, but he could ignore it easily enough. The pain was still being held at bay by the slight overdose of ibuprofen he'd taken earlier, as was the fever. He picked up his ID and keys from the bedside table, was about to leave when his cell phone flashed "low battery" at him. Feliciano stared at it, debating over whether or not he should call first.

His stomach dropped further for each moment he spent contemplating the seemingly innocent device. If he said he was coming, and Germany asked him not to… or worse, what if the blond just decided to ignore his call? No. He turned away from the phone, cursing himself for doing so, but unwavering in his resolve. If Germany tried to put him off it would break him. He was too much of a coward to face the rejection he knew would come should he call. He left the phone on the table. It wasn't like there was anyone he was planning on getting a call from any time soon. That was part of the problem.

He didn't bother to pack an overnight bag. He'd been hanging around Ludwig's place so often over the years that he had spare sets of clothes and even a toothbrush stashed around the house, though he wasn't sure if Germany was aware of this fact. Five minutes, and he was out the door in record speed, storming down the sidewalk to the nearest subway station. With any luck, taking the train, he could be in Berlin before dinner.

* * *

"Kiku!" Japan groaned as the voice echoed around his house. He pulled the covers of his futon up over his head and did his best to ignore it. Maybe it would just go away. "Are you ho—ah, there you are." His home wasn't very big. Japan preferred the traditional style, with tatami floors and few rooms. Thus it didn't take long for the voice to find him trying to hide in the middle of the floor.

"いいえ。いない。" He grumbled, not really caring enough to be polite at the moment. Besides, what was this person doing in his house, anyway?

"While I love your language, Kiku, I can't say I understand it very well." The voice was starting to sound just a little bit familiar. Still, everything hurt, his throat felt like he'd swallowed fire, and he was fighting back the urge to cough. He wanted to go back to sleep, not deal with visitors.

"あっちへ行って," Japan whined as he curled in on himself a little more. He heard someone sigh before sitting down on the tatami floor nearby.

"I heard your unemployment rate had skyrocketed last night, but I didn't think it would be _this_ bad." Oh, was that why he felt so miserable? All Japan knew was that he'd woken up this morning feeling like someone had run him over with a shinkansen. He hadn't really bothered to think much about the reason why. Wait…unemployment rate had…what?!

"I have to fix this!" He shot up, accidentally hitting the unfortunate person beside him with a face full of blankets. His whole body was screaming at him to lie back down, but now that he knew the reason he didn't have time to waste by lazing around. His boss would be counting on him. "I need to go—"

"You _need_ to rest." Warm hands pressed his shoulders down, and he buckled easily. The room was twisting beneath him from all the sudden movement, vision wavering. Still, he managed to make out the tousled hair and gentle eyes of his best friend.

"Heracles-san?" He asked, squinting. His voice really did sound awful. Greece just smiled and nodded, arranging the blankets around him until he was snugly tucked in. "What are you… how did you…"

"I flew here as soon as I heard you were having trouble." Japan's heart fluttered at the words. Sometimes when Greece was so kind and open and honest like this, he found it hard to breathe. "Kiku, do you have a fever? Your face is really red." Of course with a statement like that it only got redder. The taller nation leaned toward Japan until their foreheads were just touching and he wondered if it were possible to pass out from blushing too much. "Hmm. You haven't taken any medicine yet, have you? You're practically burning up!"

"N—no." He stuttered, completely unused to being this close to _anyone._ Actually, if it were anyone but Greece, he probably would have freaked out by now.

"I'll go find something for you then." Heracles smiled his most heartwarming, dazzling smile before walking to the kitchen. A kitten Japan had never seen before trailed at the man's heels and he couldn't help but smile, despite everything. Even with the economic world coming down around their ears, some things never changed. Greece's dreamy, lovable antics would need more than a high unemployment rate to—

Wait. Crap! He'd almost forgotten about the responsibility he had to his country! It was kind of frightening that Greece had so much power over his thinking processes, but he would just have to ponder that at a later date. If his people were suffering, which they obviously were judging by his current state of health, then he had work to do. He struggled with his covers, almost too weak to even get out of bed—why did Heracles have to be so efficient at tucking people in?—before pulling himself to his feet using the wall for support. Japan stumbled over to his dresser and searched for something to wear. It almost felt like he was drunk, what with the colors swirling around him and his vision wavering in and out. Still, he knew he had to do this.

"Hey, um… I can't really read any of these—what are you doing?" Greece came back into the room balancing a medicine powder, two bottles of pills, and a glass of water.

"I am needed at work." Japan meant for it to sound assertive, but it really just came out as a question. Greece mock glared at him, set the medicine down, and led him back to the futon.

"Sit." He commanded. The order was unneeded though, because it was at that moment Kiku's legs chose to give out.

"But I have to—"

"Don't you have a cell phone?" The question seemed completely unrelated to Japan's frazzled mind, but he nodded the affirmative. Heracles was kneeling before him on the floor, and he really was just a little too close, and had his eyes always been such a pretty color?

Japan refused to admit that he'd ever had that last thought.

"You aren't going to get much work done, sick as you are," Greece offered helpfully while he glanced around the room. "And if you run around all day you're only going to make it worse." The argument made sense but there was one key problem with it.

"But they need me to—"

"Aha!" The exclamation made Japan forget whatever he was going to say next. His self-appointed caretaker stood and crossed the room to the dresser before picking up the aforementioned cell phone. "Is this yours?" He asked, a little teasingly, rattling the small, colorful device to put more emphasis on the multitude of cute keychains Japan had attached. Kiku frowned and reached out for it.

"I fail to see how this will help." He had to admit, his thoughts were moving a little slower than usual.

"It's easy! You just take some medicine, wait till you feel a bit better, and then call your boss. You can work from home." Japan blinked. The thought had honestly never occurred to him.

"But what if—"

"Kiku Honda, so help me you are staying in bed today. Even if I have to _tie_ you down." Oh dear. Japan tried fervently to deny the extremely perverted thoughts those words elicited. Perhaps he'd been near France too often lately. It wasn't like him to think in such a way! Although, the old collection of Edo-period art in his personal library begged to differ.

"O—okay," he stuttered, feeling his face heat up and hoping the blush wasn't too obvious this time.

"Now, are any of the things I brought useful for fever?" Japan glanced dazedly at the small collection of medicines beside him. Greece hadn't done a bad job in trying to find the right ones, despite not being able to read any of the titles. Though he supposed the illustrations were explanatory enough.

"Thank you Heracles-san." He mixed the powder into his water before downing it and trying not to pull a face. It wasn't the best tasting thing in the world, but at least it worked. "Shall I go put some tea on?" Japan asked, secretly dreading the thought of standing up again. He didn't think he could walk to the kitchen, let alone carry a tea set. Still, he worked on getting his legs back in order. Greece's laughter shocked him out of moving.

"What part of 'rest' don't you understand?" The words sounded a bit harsh, but he could hear the joking affection behind them. It made his heart beat a little too fast. "Just sit back, get under those blankets, and let me take care of you."

"It would be horribly bad manners for me to allow that," he protested, but he knew that once the usually easy-going nation made his mind up about something he could hardly be persuaded to give it up.

"We're close enough friends that it doesn't really matter, right?"

"And aren't you tired from your travels? I know the time difference must be—"

"I sleep all the time, no matter what time zone I'm in. I'll be fine for a day." Heracles was giving him that look again—the one he couldn't completely decipher. Every time he saw it, he felt like he was being pieced apart and put back together again. "Now _lay down!_" Greece laughed as he manhandled his best friend into a restful position. By the time Japan knew what was going on, Greece was already back in the kitchen doing 神 knew what.

Kiku refused to admit to himself that this felt rather nice, and stubbornly picked up his cell from its discarded place by his side. He may have been forced to stay in bed, but at least he could get some work done. Japan flipped the screen open, groaned when he saw that it was already two in the afternoon. He scrolled through the list of missed calls and winced, grimacing more with every name on the list. His boss must have called somewhere near six times, as had several prominent members of his parliament and even the emperor. He must really have been out of it to miss the phone ringing off the hook all morning! He'd let this go too long. He needed to talk to his boss and see what could be done to stabilize the economy, was just about to press call when he spotted the last name on the list: イタリア・ロマノ

"Romano?" He thought aloud, more than a little confused. The older Italian brother did not make a habit of calling, and even if he had, this wasn't exactly a convenient time. Right now it was still much too early in the morning where Romano was. Something was wrong. Frowning, he opened up his voicemail.

"You have twelve new messages," Japan resisted the urge to hit his head against the floor.

"Honda-san, a very important private company has gone under, I'm sure you have heard by now. As soon as you awaken, please be sure to call me. There will, no doubt, be massive consequences and it would be best to address them as soon as possible." Ah, that wasn't good. He hoped his boss wouldn't be too angry by the time he called. The rest of the messages were basically the same except that his boss's voice was growing more and more strained. He felt increasingly guilty with each missed call. Apparently things had gotten hectic, _fast_. Japan skipped through them until he got to the end; they all said pretty much the same thing anyway. He had just gotten to Romano's message when Greece walked back into the room.

"You were supposed to sleep first," he complained, just as the older Italian's characteristic shouting began.

"Goddamn it, why does no one in this world answer their phone?" He thought he could hear someone—was that Spain?—in the background reminding Romano that it was only five-thirty AM in most of western Europe, and he really shouldn't have been expecting anyone to pick up, or something to that effect. "Yeah, well I think it's around lunchtime in Japan, isn't it? And besides, quit listening in on my phone conversations!" The message devolved into a small shouting match for a few moments, and Japan had to hold the phone away to save his ears. He didn't mind too much though, he'd gotten used to it after he'd been Feliciano's friend for a few years.

"Is that… Romano?" Greece asked as he stepped towards the futon. Japan nodded, held the phone a bit closer when it seemed like most of the shouting was done.

"Anyway, I was just calling to see if you'd seen my stupid brother lately." Romano sounded strained, as though he _really_ didn't want to be asking. "He's—he's been kind of weird these last couple days—more than usual I mean—and I thought…. Not that I was worried or anything! Just, if you know any reason he could have been crying this morning, could you call me back?"

Japan's brow furrowed. Well, there were a number of reasons for Feliciano to be crying, really. But all of them were superficial, silly things of the type he was used to seeing the nation complain about: _Germany, I'm out of pasta!_ That sort of thing. But as Feliciano's brother, Romano should have known the sorts of things he made himself upset over. Japan couldn't figure out what would be worrying enough that Romano would actually bother to call his brother's friends for help.

Spain made another comment in the background, something about Romano being cute when he was worried, and the message swiftly dissolved into chaos.

"Goddamn it Antonio, I'll kill y—"

"End of messages." Japan closed the phone and stared at it for a few moments. Come to think of it, he hadn't heard anything from Italy lately…

"Is everything alright?" Kiku blinked at the man who was suddenly right next to him, as though seeing him for the first time. Heracles laughed at the look before handing him a bowl of something and some chopsticks. Oooh. Miso soup.

"I… I'm not really sure." He mumbled, distracted by his daydreams of how nice that soup would feel to his torn throat. "Romano seemed worried about his brother." He took a long sip of the broth, closing his eyes in happiness as it warmed him from within. This was better than medicine. Greece gave him a bewildered look.

"Is Romano even _capable_ of worry?" Japan had just taken another sip, and he nearly choked on it with laughter. But once he had finished coughing, he realized that Heracles had a valid point. If _Romano_ sounded worried, something was really wrong.

"Would you mind if I use my cell phone?" He didn't really like to be talking on the phone with a guest over, but he was just concerned enough in this situation to do it.

"Of course not." Greece just smiled and petted the kitten that had somehow found its way to his lap. Japan found it hard to tear his eyes away. He thought the blush would give him away for sure this time, so he picked up the phone as quickly as he could, dialing his friend's number from memory. It didn't even ring—just went straight to voicemail.

"Hmm… battery must be dead," he observed, worry deepening even though he knew this was perfectly normal for Italy. He hung up and placed the phone back on the floor.

"Why don't you try again later?" Greece was still petting the cat, a little calico thing that was weaving back and forth beneath his hand. Japan couldn't help but feel a little jealou—where did that come from?! "It is still morning over there, after all."

"Y—yeah," he mumbled, resisting the urge to suffocate himself with his blankets.

"Hey, your face is still pretty red. Why don't you take a nap and give that medicine a chance to work?" Japan nodded, let himself be guided back to laying down, and watched Greece pick up his soup and cell-phone. "I'll be here to help you out when you wake up." He couldn't help but stare as his best friend, smiling, left the room. He didn't know why the hell he felt like this, he didn't know how to fix what was going on with the country, and he didn't know what had happened to Italy. He just hoped it would all make more sense when he woke up.

* * *

Germany could not express how glad he was to finally get to Austria's house that afternoon. Flying hung over, even after drinking his brother's rather effective concoction, was not an experience he ever wanted to repeat. He said thanks to the driver his embassy had sent, picked up his briefcase and made his way to the front door. Austria lived in a picturesque house to be sure, but it was in the middle of nowhere. He thought it would have been much more practical to live near the city, where the government and the airport and all the other things a nation usually had to deal with were located. But Austria wouldn't give up his precious garden for the world. He said it helped him find inspiration for his music.

"Ludwig!" He had to work not to be knocked off his feet by the rather enthusiastic Hungary. She had burst through the front door before he'd even had a chance to reach the porch. "How are you?" she asked as she took a step back, held Germany still and she evaluated his state of health. "Your hair's a little messed up. That's not like you." She mused before running her hands through it and "fixing" it. He had to work not to cringe from her touch. He really wasn't used to being mothered like this. It always made him incredibly uncomfortable.

"I accidentally slept in this morning, so I didn't have as much time to get ready as I would have liked." Hungary frowned.

"But you _never_ sleep in!" She was worried and he didn't know how to respond to that. What was he supposed to say? He shrugged, looked anywhere but her and tried to move towards the front door. "You must have been some kind of drunk last night if you couldn't even get up this morning." Elizaveta moved to his side, and linked her arm in his as she spoke. When he froze briefly in disbelief at her blunt words, she pulled him forward. "Oh, don't look so shocked. It's an economic recession. You think I don't know what nations do to dull the ache? Who do you think cleans up after Roderich?" He didn't know quite what to do with the implications of that statement, and chose instead to keep moving toward the door. This was looking up to be an… interesting meeting indeed.

"Where is Austria?" he asked once he had gotten inside and set his bag down. Hungary locked the door behind them and took his coat. She'd always bristled at being treated like a maid, but Germany thought she was just a little too used to Austria's way of doing things. Despite being divorced, when the two were together it was as if nothing had ever happened to separate them.

"He decided to take a day off and clean, since he figured you weren't coming. You know how he is with punctuality." He winced at the statement, knowing full well he was more than an hour late. In Austria's book, that was rather extreme. Five minutes was unforgivably late to him.

"Sorry about that, my plane got delayed and I—"

"Uh uh, you don't have to feed me that BS. Roderich is really the only one who cares. I'm just glad to see you. So what if the meeting is a little late." She smiled, eyes filled with a nostalgia that only she could understand. Sometimes she and Austria would get weird like this, and he didn't know quite how to act around them. Frankly, he found it a bit frightening.

"So… the meeting?"

"Right. Why don't you go get him yourself? I believe he's in the attic." He'd turned around, gone through three rooms and two staircases before he realized he had no idea where the attic was. He'd stayed at Austria's house quite a few times, but the attic wasn't one of the things on the list of rooms his host liked to show off. And the house was _huge_. It could easily fit the majority of their nation friends as well as a cooking staff and maid service. So it was a great surprise to him when his feet kept moving, body walking on automatic towards a place he'd never been. He was standing four floors up in front of an ancient looking wooden door before he knew what he was doing, reached out to pull it open and wondered why the heck this all felt so familiar.

The sight that greeted him felt like something he'd seen once in a dream. Junk scattered the whole of the room, neatly stacked, but junk all the same. There were paintings, candelabras, chests, globes—hundreds of things which should probably have been sitting in a museum somewhere instead of just rotting here. Sunlight streamed in from a small window near the top and cast an almost magical light on it all, and oddly enough he felt like he was home.

It terrified him.

"Austria," he called into the giant attic, wanting to get out of here as quickly as possible. This place made him feel… not himself.

"Over here." The voice echoed out from behind a huge stack of paintings and Germany could just barely make out the nation's stubborn cowlick poking up over the top. He forced himself to navigate his way over there despite the urge to just _get out_.

"I apologize for being late," he called, hoping the other nation wouldn't be too mad. "My plane was delayed and I—" All thoughts of what he'd been about to say ran from his mind when he saw it. It wasn't that noticeable; just a small, amateur portrait sitting discarded off to one side. But somehow he felt as if his heart had just been ripped out.

"Germany?" Austria came around the corner, wiping his hands of dust with a white rag. He was still dressed in business clothes, even though he'd been cleaning not a moment before.

"Is… is that Italy?" He didn't really have to ask; there was no doubt that the sleeping child in the picture was his best friend, despite the strange way in which he was dressed. Germany _knew_ it was Italy, just as he knew every stroke of paint, every precise line drawn by careful hands. The oils had cracked over the years, but despite the wear and tear time had taken on the portrait, he could easily picture it as it once must have looked. He just didn't have the faintest idea _why_.

"Yes." He looked up from his study of the small, strangely familiar painting at the sound of Austria's voice. He'd almost forgotten the older nation was there. "From when Italy lived here." But Austria wasn't looking at the painting. He was staring straight at Germany, eyes pleading for… something. Germany didn't understand.

"Italy lived here?" He asked, searching his mind for the event that would explain such a thing. His knowledge of history was something he prided himself in; he'd certainly studied it enough to be good at it. When Prussia had found him all those years ago, history had almost been an obsession. He'd woken up one day, knowing nothing about himself except his name. History had been his way of crafting a past for himself. And yet he couldn't think of…

"It was during the heyday of the Holy Roman Empire," Austria supplied, looking strangely fragile. Ludwig grimaced. Despite his uncanny ability to remember the events of the past, he'd always been a bit shady on that period of history. For some reason thinking about it had always made him uneasy. "Here," Austria mumbled after they had spent a while wallowing in the awkward silence. He walked over to another corner of the room with purpose, his body language stiff. Germany almost thought he seemed nervous. "He painted this, back then." The aristocratic man hefted what seemed to be a huge canvas, and Germany moved to help him. However, by the time he got there Austria already had the thing back on the ground and turned to face him.

It was a family portrait, beautifully done in oils with rich colors and expressive lines. The light reflected off skin and clothing in a way that was far above the artists of its time. This painting too had seen better days, but Germany could easily see past the cracked paint to the faces drawn there. Roderich and Elizaveta stared back at him, between them was a little blond child with ice-blue eyes and… Germany froze.

"Who is that?" If he didn't know any better, he would think he was looking at a picture of himself. But the thing was about three hundred years too early for that. He reached out to touch the painting and his own face stared back, piercing him in a way that made him feel as if his veins were filled with ice.

"The Holy Roman Empire, of course." Austria was trying to sound unaffected, but Germany could hear the hurt buried there.

"What happened?" Roderich just shrugged and looked at him pointedly.

"Obviously, the Empire dissolved. He went with it." Germany knew there was something more to the story. Austria wouldn't stop staring. He looked like he expected the blond to say something, to realize something, perhaps? But he didn't know what. "It doesn't matter anyway, that was a long time ago." The aristocratic nation finally turned away, flipped the painting back toward the wall with body language that screamed frustration. Perhaps it would be best to just let this subject drop.

Silence descended once more and Germany found himself staring at the picture of Italy again. He couldn't explain the feelings that portrait made him feel—didn't know if he wanted to. Everything about the painting was so carefully done; it was obvious that whoever made it had cared very much for the young nation.

"Who painted this?"

"Holy Roman Empire," Austria sounded absorbed in memory. "Italy taught him to paint. Those two were inseparable." Ludwig couldn't deny the pang of jealousy that accosted him at the thought of Italy being close friends with someone else. He immediately stifled it. Italy could be friends with whomever he pleased. And besides, Germany hadn't even _existed_ then. His envy was hardly justifiable. Still…

"Odd, he's never said anything about it." Feliciano told him _everything_. Every complaint, every war, every horrible boss—Germany got an earful of it. It wasn't all lighthearted either, no matter what the brunette liked others to think. Italy had suffered through much of his history. Germany didn't always like what he heard, but it had been nice to know that someone trusted him enough to talk about their whole world like that. So that Italy would completely forget to mention someone who he had obviously cared about so much was strangely hurtful.

"He wouldn't have. It nearly killed him when he found out the Empire was no more." Germany started, unable to picture his friend so distraught. "He didn't talk to any of us for days. He just locked himself in his room for almost a week, and when he came out he was never quite the same." Austria was completely absorbed in the memory, eyes glazed over with thought. "I still think he hates France for what happened, despite how he acts." Ludwig felt sick for some reason. He didn't want to think of Italy hurting so much and hiding it behind empty smiles and laughter. He liked to think he could tell the real ones from the fake ones, but what if he couldn't? And the fact that someone else had the power to hurt Italy like that at all… it—it made him jealous.

"Hellooo." Hungary's lilting voice threw him off guard and he jumped a bit before turning to face her. He could just make out her shadow climbing through the piles to reach them. "Did you two get lost?" She spoke once she was close.

"Not lost, just distracted." The lady blinked, and Germany supposed he would have been surprised too if their roles were switched. It was not often that Austria got side-tracked; much less often that he actually admitted it.

"Distracted? By wha—oh." Her eyes had fallen to the small portrait nearby, and she picked it up with reverent hands. "I didn't know you found this…" She mused, and she too looked as though she had stepped back into the past. Austria just "hmm"ed noncommittally and turned to make his way out of the room.

"I believe, since all the relevant parties have arrived, that we have a meeting to attend to?" he called behind himself. Germany had nearly forgotten about their meeting in the face of this strange conversation. He tore his eyes from the painting in Hungary's hands and started toward the door.

"Don't forget this!" She called after him. He turned just in time have the old painting thrust in his face. "Honestly, what are you doing leaving all your things everywhere? You can't expect me to keep cleaning up after you!" She was smiling at him as if she knew something he didn't. And Germany was _really_ starting to feel uncomfortable with the strange way she was talking.

"What? But this is Austria's…"

"No silly, he thinks it's yours too. He didn't say it out loud, but I could tell." Hungary shook the painting in front of his face again and he had to reach out and take it. She nodded, satisfied that he would keep it and kept walking. Germany couldn't help it. He was _confused._

"Elizaveta, I'm not sure I understand." He protested, reaching out to stop her with one hand. She stilled beneath his touch but didn't turn around.

"You look just like him, you know." Her voice was quiet, shoulders stiff. Ludwig felt his mind go blank. Was she implying… could she possibly mean…

"I'm not—"

"The painting is yours, Ludwig," she spoke one last time, her voice begging him not to disagree, and then she followed her ex-husband out the door. Germany stood in the same place for a long while just staring at the artwork he'd been given. He didn't know what to do. Should he keep it or leave it? On one hand, keeping it implied that he believed Elizaveta's words, and he didn't want to give her false hope. But on the other… Why did it feel like he'd seen this picture before? Leaving it behind among all the other junk to rot just felt like… it made his heart ache for a reason he couldn't comprehend.

He shook his head to clear the stupidity from his mind, and moved to set the damn thing down. What those two wanted from him was just something he couldn't give. It hurt to realize that all these years they'd been seeing him as someone else. He would just have to show them they were wrong, and then he'd build a new relationship from the ground up. He wasn't the person they obviously missed. It just wasn't possible.

…was it?

Germany tucked the painting under his arm and walked forward.


	3. Failed Meetings

Hello all! What's up?

I worked really hard on this chapter. Sorry it's a week late... I tried, but you know how it is. Hahah.

Bleh. I hope you guys like it. I wanted something a bit more... I don't know. Italy's part seems a little trite, but I managed to wrestle this out. The chapters a bit shorter than usual, but quality over quantity, I always say.

I don't own Hetalia, I'm not making a proffit of this story. If I were, I could afford to buy my friends christmas presents...

Please Review!

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_He was back in that place again—the one full of blue skies and sunlight. Even the clouds in the sky were perfect, all fluffy white. The land looked like it had never seen a storm, and it made him uneasy. Places like this couldn't last for long. They were too perfect, too happy to exist. Didn't he know that from experience?_

_"Italy!" That person was calling him again, and for the first time, he hesitated. He could feel the dread building in the pit of his stomach, even if he didn't know why. He just __knew__ something bad was going to happen, and he didn't think he could stand to watch. "Italy?" He turned slowly to meet the voice, heart in his throat. But as soon as he caught sight of sunshine hair and sky blue eyes his fears melted. _

_"Hi," He mumbled, filled with a jumble of emotions that didn't feel like his own. Relief, joy, the deepest aching sorrow—all assailed him at once and threw him into confusion. The blond in front of him just smiled as though he understood and held out his hand. _

_"Come with me, Italy." There was something a bit off about that phrase… wasn't it usually something a little different? He wasn't sure… He wanted to say yes so badly, but there was something within, some voice of reason screaming that it wouldn't be a good idea. Why? Was it… he wasn't supposed to take that hand. He knew that…but why? Something to do with grandpa and… what was it again?_

_The person in front of him didn't get impatient as Italy fought with himself; just kept smiling, unmoving, waiting for an answer. He opened his mouth to say no, but one look at those crystalline eyes and his heart took over. He couldn't deny the one he loved again. He'd done it too long already. Throwing consequence to the wind, he stepped forward and held on to the offered limb like his life depended on it. _

_"Come on!" The child-empire laughed, and Feliciano felt his heart soar. He had never heard the blond laugh like that. Even at this age, he was already weighted down with far too much bloody history. Seeing him so carefree was painfully beautiful to behold. Italy nodded without really remembering why, and before he knew what was going on they were racing through the endless country side. _

_He didn't know where they were going, and he suspected that the one he loved didn't either, but he couldn't bring himself to care. The blonde's hand was warm in his own and he felt as though he would burst with happiness. Whatever happened after this, if he could only remember this day, he would never have to fight just to smile. He wouldn't have to fake it ever again. _

_They ran until the sun set and they could run no more; fell to the ground in a giggling, exhausted heap. Austria would probably be mad that he'd shirked his chores again, they were completely lost, and he had no idea how they were going to get back in the dark. But somehow, he just couldn't make himself care. Being here was so much more important than all that other stuff ever could be. _

_"Hey," Italy interrupted the silence once they'd both regained their breath. He could feel somehow that this wouldn't last—knew that there was something cold and heartless waiting on the horizon. He was gripped with fear of that future, clenched the hand in his own a bit tighter. "Promise me you'll never leave?" _

"Excuse me…_"_ _The voice drifted to him over waves of static and sent him into momentary disarray. He looked for the source with wide eyes. What was he doing here? But as soon as he felt his love's hand on his cheek he completely forgot everything else. Liquid amber eyes snapped back to depthless blue even as the world dissolved around them. He didn't know __what__ was going on. The background seemed to flicker between a million different places, the person he was staring at blinked in and out of existence, but the eyes never changed. _

_"Wha—?" Just when Feliciano thought he would be blinded by this madness, everything stopped. The hand in his own disappeared, and he panicked. "No!" He screamed, desperate not to let this happen again. He wouldn't let the one he loved get away this time! He tried to pick himself up the ground, but didn't get far before he was surrounded by strong arms. Italy was overwhelmed by confusion, torn between the need to find that person and the sudden urge to just stay here. Why did this feel so __right__?_

_"I promise." It was Ludwig who answered. Italy jumped, looked up at the face of the one holding him. Sunshine hair and sky blue eyes stared back. _

"Sir! Please wake up!" Everything wavered one last time before real life came crashing painfully down. Italy groaned and cracked one bleary eye open to find a stewardess at his side. "We have reached our destination." He stared at her, uncomprehending for a few moments before he realized where he was and what he was doing.

"_Grazie_," he murmured, shaking off her hand and pulling himself back up to a standing position. His entire body protested the movement, medicine having long worn off by now. He felt absolutely horrible. The ache of fever had settled deep in his bones and it wasn't like that nap had done anything to make him feel better. His dream had shaken him deeply, and he wasn't quite sure if he wanted to deal with it just yet.

"Are you alright, sir? You do not seem well." The stewardess reached out to steady him when he wavered, and he looked at her in surprise. She seemed young, her pretty face furrowed with worry. God, he must have looked awful if complete strangers were concerned. He gave her the best smile he could, nodded, and made a break for the door. He could hear the sounds of the city beckoning through the metal wall and he was eager to rejoin the rest of the world again. "Please rest, and enjoy your stay!" The lady called after him, and Italy had to admit it made him feel a little better. It was nice to be noticed. Even if it was by someone he didn't know.

Berlin was as it usually was when he visited—loud, busy, and cold. He shivered and wished he'd thought of bringing a coat. He was _freezing_, and not just because of the cool air. His fever was much too high at this point, having been allowed to go unchecked since the last dose stopped working. He _really_ should have planned a little more before he'd jumped out the door. Knowing he was sick and embarking on this journey anyway had been dumb enough, but he'd also forgotten to bring a coat or prepare for his symptoms to return. At the very least he should have brought along some of the pills currently scattering the floor of his kitchen. Which was another thing he hadn't thought out very well; he'd left the house a complete mess. If anyone found the place, they would think he'd been kidnapped or something. Despite his lazy nature, he did usually like to make an effort to keep things tidy, especially his kitchen. He didn't dare imagine what would happen if Romano came home early and saw how much he'd been slacking… He wouldn't hear the end of it. Still, he didn't regret leaving. He would have gone completely mad alone in that house for even one more hour. At least while he was traveling he had plenty of things to distract himself with. There were people here, color and movement and _noise_ of the sort he could actually stand. He didn't have to remember or even think; he could just put his mind on automatic and watch the world go by.

The sun had already set by the time he made his way out to the street. He really just wanted to follow its example and pass out until tomorrow, but he forced himself to keep moving. He was almostthere. Just another hour or so and he'd be with Germany. Whether what awaited him there was good or not, he wasn't entirely certain. But at this point he just wanted to _get there_.

Italy called a taxi with little trouble and climbed in. He probably could have gotten a ride for free from the embassy, but that would take more time. He was willing to shell out a little cash if it meant he'd get to his destination faster.

"Where to?" the driver asked in stilted English. The brunette blinked at him uncomprehendingly a couple times before he realized he was being talked to. He delivered Ludwig's address in perfect German and leaned back against the leather seats. Lights sped past him in a dizzying neon display that he usually would have enjoyed, but right now it only made his headache worse. The driver had some kind of nonsense playing on the radio—a lively discourse on German politics that he couldn't even begin to understand. Still, it served nicely to distract him from his nightmares and self-derision. He let his mind drift, let himself get lost in the voices he couldn't comprehend until all conversation melted into the background. He was floating through in a world of blues and greens, laughing and _happy _in a way he had not been for a while. And right there beside him was the Germany from his dreams…

"Is this the place?" The driver's voice sent him crashing back into reality, and before he knew it he was staring at Germany's front door. He must have fallen asleep again. _Dio_ he couldn't keep his eyes open! The poor man was glancing between him and the house in confusion and Italy couldn't really blame him. He had no idea how long he'd just been sitting here looking off into space. He nodded, handed over the correct taxi fare, and stumbled up to the front door. It felt like a huge weight had been lifted as soon as he set foot on the front step. Strangely, more than anywhere else, this house felt like home. He pressed the doorbell and tried to find his happy mask again. Showing up here randomly would be suspicious enough without him acting gloomy too.

"Italy?" The door opened to show Germany's white-haired brother. Oh, right. Because Ludwig's brother hadn't _abandoned_ him. Italy shook his head to banish such bitter, un-deserved thoughts and forced his smile back on.

"Hey Prussia." He was almost surprised at how normal his own voice sounded. "Is Germany around?" He kept his eyes closed and tried to suppress another shiver. The night air only seemed to get colder as the seconds ticked by, even though his forehead felt like it was burning.

"Er… no, he's over at Austria's place." Italy's breath froze in his chest. He—he hadn't thought of that… he…

"Oh," Now what was he going to do? A thousand "I should have"s beleaguered him at once and he didn't know what to do. He wasn't thinking straight, didn't realize that he could just get a hotel for a few days. To his fevered mind this felt like the end of the world, a death sentence, proof that no one cared. "Ok then." He tried not to let his voice waver as he turned around, but he could already feel the tears building in burning eyes. He had to get out of here. Maybe if he got to the station fast enough he could find another train back to Italy before… oh _God_ he couldn't keep going.

"Hey, wait, Italy—" Prussia called after him but Feliciano couldn't hear it. His ears were ringing with the sound of his own pulse, heart beating like a hummingbird's in his chest. Everything was freezing and boiling all at once, pain rising to a crescendo. "Italy!" He took a step—one, two—and fell.

The darkness was blessedly calm.

* * *

Romano growled and resisted the urge to hit his head against the polished desk in front of him. This had started as a meeting to address the financial crisis and to form a unified coalition that would support their findings at the EU. For the first hour or so, that was exactly what it _had_ been. But then Bulgaria had called Spain's olive-growing practices into question and the world had descended into chaos. Nations were slinging around petty threats and accusations from decades ago. He found himself wondering why this always happened when five or more of their kind got together. At first he'd thought it was just because of the "Big five." Whenever they, and especially America and England, were in the same place, the meeting was sure to go to hell. But now he was being forced to revise that thought because it seemed like they were no longer the only catalyst for insanity.

"You're cute when you're annoyed." Spain had somehow managed to extract himself from the fray early on, despite his role in starting it, and was once again a permanent fixture at his boyfriend's side. Romano suspected the miraculous escape had something to do with the way Bulgaria was now laying knocked out cold on the floor. It didn't surprise him. Spain could be ruthless if he wanted, and none of these other idiots would even think of questioning his smiling face.

"Shut up!" He tried to sound menacing as he thwacked the nation's arm, but he suspected that the blush probably ruined it. Stupid Antonio making him feel all… mushy. He was manly and dangerous, damn it. He was not _cute_. So why did he feel all fuzzy and crap whenever Antonio said it?

"See?" Spain's tone may have been light as it ever was, but his eyes gave everything away. Those were the eyes of a conqueror—the one who took what he wanted and never gave back. "Cute." The way he purred it, Lovino felt anything but cute.

"S—stop." His attempt to sound firm and collected as always was thwarted by his stutter. Still, there was no way in hell he was going to give in to his boyfriend right here and now, sexy look be damned. He didn't want everyone to know about them just yet, especially not before he'd told his own brother, and he really didn't want people to know just how weak Antonio made him either. But somehow, knowing that Spain didn't care who saw made his heart flutter.

"Stop what?" Ok, he was really getting too close now. Romano could feel the breath on his neck, the heat of that piercing gaze. Why did Spain have to decide to go all romantic _now_?!

"That?" he meant to sound angry but it came out as more of a whimper. Antonio's smirk just grew. He leaned forward until he was barely a hair's breadth away. He was really, really close and oh _Dio _was he really going to… in front of all these people?! Romano raised his hands—whether to pull Spain close or push him away he wasn't really sure. He didn't get the chance to find out, because at that moment, Spain was promptly bowled over by a flying Frenchman. Romano blinked, took a few seconds to get his breath, and his resolve, back.

"Francis, get off." Spain whined, shoving the blond as he spoke. France did not do as asked, but rather latched on.

"Save me," fake tears streamed down his strangely bearded face. Romano wanted to protest someone else touching _his_ Antonio, but couldn't say anything without giving himself away. He settled for glaring. "Portugal is trying to kill me." Sure enough, the other Iberian nation was storming across the room. Antonio glanced between his two neighbors a few times before understanding dawned on his features.

"Nope." He chirruped, a little too gleefully, "It's your own fault for groping him." He pushed France's face backwards until he had to let go, and then shoved him in Portugal's general direction. Romano cheered inwardly.

"You, sir, are a—" but whatever France had been about to say was cut off by the sudden increase in volume of the other nations. He had no idea what had started it, but they were grouped into factions now, pairing off and actually looking like they were going to all-out brawl. Romano couldn't help it. He'd had _enough_.

"ALRIGHT ALREADY!" He shouted as he stood up. The Italian brothers were often told they were loud for a reason. Romano's voice carried over the din despite how noisy they all were. The room fell silent in confusion. Lovino may have been one of the loudest nations, but when it came to meetings, he was generally content to blend into the background and let those other idiots make a mess of things. For him to be interrupting now was more than a little unusual. "I don't know why the hell you all bothered coming, but I actually felt like getting work done today. God knows why I thought I'd be able to do anything with this room full of _children_ running the show." Antonio had the good sense to look sheepish, since it was in part his fault that this whole mess had begun in the first place. "I'll be back when you people decide you can act like professionals." He spat as he picked up his things, kicked his chair in and made a rush for the door.

His boss might be ticked that he'd left, but at the moment, he couldn't really say he cared. He had too much else on his mind. He stormed through the hallways, not really sure where he thought he was going except that it was _away_.

"Hey!" Spain finally caught up to him on his way out of the building, but Romano didn't stop walking away. He felt so helpless right now. He didn't know what to do. "Hey," his boyfriend repeated, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. "If you're that worried, why don't we just go check on him ourselves?" Romano froze, turning to face the voice. It still surprised him how well Spain knew him, although it probably shouldn't have. Spain had played a large part in raising him; he should certainly have at least a basic understanding of the way Lovino's mind worked.

"…Can we do that?" Spain nodded and Romano felt as if a weight had just been lifted from his chest. In truth, he was more than a little worried. Firstly because the depression hadn't been affecting him at all. Italy as a country had been hit moderately hard, so why didn't he feel even a little under the weather? Even Spain had been sneezing for the first few weeks, and he hadn't been affected as much. Romano's only explanation was that Feliciano, who had become the representation of their unified country—and he wouldn't admit he was bitter about that, because he _wasn't_—was the only one truly suffering through the effects. But if Feliciano was sick, he hadn't said anything. It wasn't normal. Feliciano always complained.

So when he found his brother acting strangely this morning, it was even more disconcerting. Perhaps, if his brother _was_ sick, it might explain the odd way he'd sounded earlier, but Romano just… he just knew it had to be more than that. He could hear the tears in Feliciano's voice, the sound of it echoing through his mind even still. It wasn't right. Feliciano wasn't meant to sound like that. His brother was hurting, probably pretty sick, all alone in that house… Romano felt nauseous just thinking about it.

"But what about the meeting?" He remembered, just as Spain was pulling him out the door. The older nation scoffed.

"Like we were getting anything done in there anyway." He laughed, and Romano fervently denied the way that sound made him feel. Just because he was dating the idiot didn't mean that he had to act like a complete _girl_ about it. "Besides, I have to admit I'm a little worried myself." Romano jumped, eyes wide.

"You are?" He hadn't expected that. Spain _had_ cared for them both a bit as children, now that he thought about it. So maybe it wasn't such a farfetched idea. It was just that Spain didn't mention Feliciano much except to tease Romano about something, so he hadn't thought… Spain nodded and the Italian had to sigh in relief. As much as he tried to hide it, knowing that Antonio cared about his brother made him feel like… like they could all be a family. And as everyone knew, family was probably the most important thing in the world to him. Still, if anyone asked about it later, he would fervently deny the goofy smile that had worked its way to his face. He schooled his expression back into his trademark angry frown with unmatched speed and ignored his boyfriend's laughter. "Well what are you doing just standing there then, _idioto_. Let's go!"

"After you, dear," Spain teased, and Lovino thwacked him on the arm again to hide his blush before storming off. He didn't hit _too_ hard; the tomato bastard was only doing this to distract him, after all. Spain might have thought he was being discreet, but Romano had figured him out after the first few decades of living together. He knew all Antonio's quirks by now, knew how much effort the man spent to keep him happy. It was one of the things that had made him realize he l—loved Antonio. Goddamn it. "Awww… You're so cute when you blush! You look like a tomato." Spain half-sang, and Romano glared at him for appearance's sake. If anyone ever told the idiot just how happy it really made him to hear those words, he'd put a hit on them.

* * *

"I don't think that would be a wise idea. Placing more restrictive measures on imports would only hurt us in the long run. They would lock in our inefficiencies and only serve to make us weaker." Germany sighed and tried to keep his mind on what he was doing. He wasn't proving very successful. This meeting had been dragging on and on; nearly six _long_ hours they'd been discussing the various ills of the European Union with a small break for food, and they were nowhere near done. He was tired, he still didn't feel his best, and he couldn't stop thinking about that damn painting. It was currently leaning against the back of his chair and he had to fight not to turn around right now and pick it up. He didn't know why he felt so drawn to it or why Austria and Hungary seemed so convinced that he was someone he was not… surely he would remember something if he were the Holy Roman Empire, right?

"But my people can't compete with the international market! If we push for less protection, my people will have nowhere to work! Even if it sounds pretty, free trade at this point is completely impractical." But then, it was true that he couldn't remember anything before Prussia found him. He'd woken up in the 1800's without a clue who he was or where he'd come from. Most nations had something of a childhood, but when he'd awoken he already looked like a teen. Hadn't the Holy Roman Empire ended around that time? During the…Napoleonic Wars. That was when Prussia had taken him under his wing… But it—it just wasn't possible! He didn't _want_ it to be. He didn't want to know that this whole time he'd just been living someone else's life, or at least that everyone else thought he was. If Austria and Hungary thought he was the Holy Roman Empire, was that the only reason they seemed to care about him? Did…did Italy think the same way? _Gott_ if that was true, he wouldn't be able to live with himself.

"What about you, Ludwig?" Hungary was talking to him, he realized. Germany panicked, berating himself for spacing out like that. It wasn't like him at all.

"I agree with Austria." He mumbled, hoping that it was the right thing to say. He had no idea what was being discussed at the moment, so he just guessed the country which was usually in the same vein of policy as him. Hungary grumbled.

"Of _course_ you do. _You're_ capable of producing for the international market. But what am _I_ supposed to do?" Oh dear. What on earth had they been talking about? Germany paled and hoped no one would notice. Luckily, the others at the table with him were too involved in their debate to pay him much mind.

"Invest in your tourism industry."

"And where am I supposed to get the money to do that, Mr. Ski resort?!" It was like watching a tennis match.

"Perhaps in recognition of our former united status, the government of Austria would be willing to supply a loan."

"Oh don't even get me started on America's World Trade Organization loaning strategies. I've already tried that, and it hasn't worked at all." She paused to sneeze into the handkerchief clutched in her fist. Odd that he hadn't noticed it earlier, but then he supposed he hadn't really been thinking about what was going on around him. But then, she'd been a little under the weather for so long that perhaps he'd just gotten used to it.

"That's only because you haven't worked with it long enough! It works just fine with developed countries. The reason there is such a high failure rate is that such strategies are most often used with Lesser Developed Countries. You are hardly a third world nation, dear."

"I _will_ be if we don't protect the European mar—" Germany's phone chose that moment to go off for what had to be the fifth time that hour. He winced as he felt the two glares pointed directly at him and moved to silence it. He hadn't turned it off before the meeting because people generally didn't call him on his cell. Anyone who _would_ was currently already in this room. But now he was sorely regretting that decision. Every time it went off, Roderich made him feel like a scolded child.

"Either answer it or turn it off, Germany," Austria sighed. "Whoever it is obviously won't be giving up anytime soon." Ludwig nodded, pulled the thing from his pocked and stared for a few seconds at the name. He was going to _kill_ his brother. He stood from the table, made a polite excuse to his friends and stepped just outside the room before flipping the phone open.

"What." He ground out, not amused in the slightest. These little interruptions were costing him time, and he just wanted to get out of this meeting and _sleep_.

"_Mein gott im himmel_ did you actually decide to answer this time?" He closed his eyes and counted to ten in an attempt to keep his anger at a minimum. He had to remind himself that he really did care about his stupid, inconsiderate brother before he could open his mouth and say something hurtful. "Heloooo. Anyone there?"

"Gilbert, I have no idea what you thought would be important enough to call me in the middle of a meeting _five times_ but if this is something asinine about how lonely you are, then so help me—"

"Well, excuuuuse me! For some reason I thought you'd want to know your best friend kinda passed out on our front lawn earlier," the silver-haired man interrupted, his tone a little more strained than it usually was. "And besides, I only called four times. Someone else must be trying to get a hold of you too." Germany blinked.

"What?"

"I said I only called you four times, so—"

"No, about Italy. What do you mean?" His heart was beating more quickly than usual against his ribcage. He hadn't heard from his best friend in a while. What with how messed up he'd been mentally at the time, he'd seen it as a good thing, but he'd never thought that something might happen to Italy in his absence.

"Exactly what I said! Italy just dropped like a sack of potatoes, man. I didn't know what to do. I've been calling you because I thought… well you're his friend, right? Besides you're the only person I really know to call." Germany felt another headache coming on. He massaged his temples with his free hand and tried to make some sense of his brother's rambling.

"Explain. From the beginning." Prussia sighed as though exasperated, but Germany couldn't care less. The idiot needed to learn to be more coherent sometimes.

"I was sitting in the drawing room with the Gilbirds, giving them their dinner. But I had to be kind of careful about it because one of the little guys is on a diet. He's gaining weight at an alarming rate! I took him to the vet the other day, and he told me—"

"_Please_ try to stay on subject, Gilbert." Honestly. Sometimes, he just wanted to strangle the idiot. And _which_ one of them was supposed to be the older one?

"Right. So I was in the living room, and the doorbell rang. I didn't know who it could possibly have been, because no one ever comes and visits us, least not since you decided to go on your drinking spree, so I went and opened it." Germany growled, but didn't comment. At least they were staying on subject this time. Somewhat. "It was Italy. I have no idea why he came over, but he looked like a complete wreck. I've never _seen_ someone look more run-down. He—"

"What do you mean he looked like a wreck?" The phrase was so strange it had taken a moment for him to understand it. Italy just… he wasn't meant to be anything less than happy. Besides, if Italy had been hurting he would have noticed, right? …No. No he wouldn't have. He had been so wrapped up in his own problems these past few months, he hadn't even thought about how Italy might have been affected as well. He could feel the guilt begin to churn, nauseating in the pit of his stomach.

"Look, do you want me to finish the story, or not?" Prussia whined. The blond grumbled out a yes, and bit his tongue to keep from saying anything else. "So anyway, He asked for you and I told him you weren't around. He looked at me like I'd stopped Christmas, took about two steps away from the door and then he just sort of… passed out. It was really… I've never seen him like that, West." Gilbert sounded worried, and that alone was enough to make Ludwig out of his mind with paranoia.

"So what happened? What's wrong with him? You didn't just _leave_ him there, did you?!"

"What? No! What the hell, West. Do you really think I'm that stupid?" Yes, Germany thought, I do. Besides, he didn't really trust Italy's health to anyone but himself. "I picked him up and took him inside. Even I wouldn't leave a sick person out in the cold." He felt his gut twist.

"Sick?"

"Yeah. I have no idea how he managed to make it all the way here from Italy, what with how ill he was. Kid had a fever higher than I've seen in a while. Probably why he passed out. I thought about taking him to the hospital, but I don't know. You didn't see him earlier, looking like the world had broken around his feet. I just didn't like the thought of leaving him somewhere without anyone he knew nearby." Germany swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. Gilbert was probably exaggerating—he usually did—but the thought of his best friend going through that much alone was just... He had to get there. He had to get over his own stupid insecurities and he had to _fix this_. He couldn't stand for Italy to be hurting because of his own selfish idiocy.

"Is he… is he ok now?" Prussia hummed noncommittally and every mental alarm Germany had ever had was screaming at him to get back home and take care of his best friend.

"I force-fed him some Tylenol, but the fever hasn't gone down by too much and he hasn't woken up since. That's why I've been calling you. I really don't know what to do." He sighed and tried to think about all this rationally. He was currently at a meeting helping out Austria and Hungary with their policy planning in the EU. It was important. Italy was safe in his house, having been given medicine and with someone to watch over him. He wasn't going to get better faster whether Germany was there or not. The most logical course of action would be to finish the meeting, sleep, and then go home in the morning. Perhaps by the time he got there Italy would be feeling well enough to tell him what the heck was going on. But when he thought about his best friend, suffering there without him…

Screw logic.

"Keep an eye on him, I'll be there as soon as I can. Just… take him to the hospital if it gets worse, ok?" He had to get there. It didn't matter if he could change anything or not, he just… he couldn't just act like nothing was wrong when Italy was sick like that. Germany had to be there, by his side until the world started making sense again.

"Got it."

"Call me if he wakes up, or something changes."

"I will. See you soon." Prussia hung up without any of his usual antics, and Germany frowned. He'd been expecting some kind of teasing remark from his brother, so the completely serious acquiescence frightened him more than anything else. Italy must really have been _awful_ to shake his brother up like this. He stood there staring at the phone for a few more minutes before he was able to think again, flipped the damn thing closed and went to push the meeting room door open. It moved about an inch before hitting something solid.

"Ow!" Someone on the other side exclaimed before the sound was lost in what sounded like a tumultuous scramble to get away. Germany resisted the urge to hit his head against the solid oak door, waited a few moments, and pushed it all the way open.

"Something wrong, Ludwig, dear?" Hungary tried to play it off, but he could see how ruffled she was. Austria was looking equally suspicious on the other side of the table, and now sported a nasty-looking red blotch on his forehead. Germany raised an eyebrow. "Oh, alright fine. I heard your side of the conversation, as much good as _that_ did me. You could talk a little more you know, and help a poor girl out." He sighed and shook his head. He should have known he'd have eavesdroppers. Elizaveta was somewhat famous for that sort of thing. She must have dragged Austria into it.

"Italy came to my house. He's sick and has passed out due to a fever, apparently." Hungary gasped.

"Strange. His country is relatively stable at the moment, is it not?" Austria spoke once he'd managed to regain his composure.

"That's what I thought, but Prussia says it's bad." His gaze fell to the painting behind his chair, and he was suddenly struck by how small and fragile his best friend looked. He didn't know what he was doing standing here like this; he had to get back! "Austria, I'm really sorry about the meeting, but I—"

"Just go, Ludwig." Austria had that odd, parental tone of voice again—the one that made Germany feel as if he were missing something important. "We know how important he is to you." They were both looking at him with that strange gaze, and Germany knew they weren't seeing him. Not really. Now he knew they were looking straight at the Holy Roman Empire, and it made him feel like a fake, like he wasn't good enough.

"R-right." He stuttered, overwhelmed by the awkwardness of this whole situation. He picked up his bag, hesitated, and picked up the painting again. As stupid as it was, he couldn't bear to leave anything of Italy carelessly behind, no matter what it represented.

"Take care of my little brother, Ludwig. I expect you to call me, and tell me how he is!" Hungary called at his retreating back. He nodded once to show he'd heard, pulled out his phone to dial the embassy and pushed the door open. He only hoped Italy wasn't as bad off as Prussia made it sound.


	4. Frequent Flying

Hello all! Some of you will probably be dissappointed by this chapter. :D Germany and Italy are a little absent... hehe. The truth of the matter is that this was supposed to be the last chapter, but I couldn't tie it all off at once. So.... the secondary characters all hijacked the chapter... er... hopefully it won't be too boring!

anyway, please review! I've been getting awesomely wonderful reviews from you guys so far, which is probably the only reason I've been able to update this quickly! XD I thought it wasn't going to be until next Tuesday at the earliest! haha.

I don't own Hetalia, nor do I profit from this chapter. Enjoy!

(12/11/09) *edit* Err… Scratch that. I had to add a scene on to the end, so now it's neither short nor without Germany. Haha. Still no Italy though. Hope you like the new scene, and sorry to all the people who already read this chapter! It's at the end, if you want to skim over what you already read.

Also made a correction on Elizaveta's hair color. How the heck did I think that it was Lavender?!

* * *

Spain couldn't help but admire the way Romano commanded himself—shoving his way ruthlessly through the bustling crowds and demanding tickets home on "_the next plane,_ thank you" without pause. If he thought about it, Lovino had always been a bit like that. He could still picture the tiny boy, clutching at his pant leg centuries and centuries ago, demanding one concession or another. When had it stopped being adorable and started being effective? He couldn't recall. Perhaps it had been in those strange years when he'd suddenly woken up and seen Lovino the _man_, and not the child.

"Come on!" Romano shouted at him, waving the tickets he'd procured and reaching out for his sleeve. Spain let himself be dragged through the terminal at a run; couldn't take his eyes off the brunette in front of him. He'd raised Lovino—had done the best he could though sometimes he felt guilty about the way things turned out. If he had a choice, he would have done more to keep the mafia away. His charge had grown up far too quickly, made bitter and hard by inner wars and death. Still, Lovino was _his_, understood him in a way that no one else could. It was just… somewhere along the way, their roles had been switched. Now Antonio was the one who felt like a child. When had Romano gotten so _strong_? "Idiot behind the counter wanted me to wait for the next flight, but it's four hours from now! We'll be getting in late as it is. I'm not waiting four flipping hours!" The angry front was in full swing, but Spain could still see the anxiety bubbling just beneath. He hated that. He didn't want Romano to ever have to worry.

"Aw, you didn't want to spend more time with me?" The Italian nearly tripped at the sentence, looked back briefly to send him a half-hearted glare before he continued his mad dash. Antonio could only laugh. Romano was full of masks and deceptions, but for all that, it was remarkably easy to make him blush.

Security was a nightmare, as it always was, but seeing Romano tear into the poor attendants was amusing if nothing else. It was a little disconcerting that his boyfriend had managed to shout the security staff into submission, but at least they avoided getting patted down and puffed with air. They slipped their shoes back on with record speed, grabbed what little baggage they brought with them from the conveyer belt and were soon running breakneck, side by side to the gate. When Romano had said the next plane out, he meant it. So they currently had about five minutes to reach their flight before it took off.

"Hurry up, or I'll tell them to leave without you!" Romano called as he sped up, a ghost of a smile present on his face. They were both panting—Paris's airport was not small by any means, and they were running faster then they'd had cause to in quite some time—but Spain didn't mind. He loved to see Lovino like this, giddy with physical exertion, all his walls down. It was the kind of joy he only saw when they were playing football together.

They reached the gate with seconds to spare, flashed their boarding passes and passports and rushed in to the cabin. They'd been lucky enough to get first class seats. Romano sat down, shoved his bag under the seat in front of him, and collapsed into a boneless mass in his chair. Spain laughed before doing the same.

"Ok, maybe next time, I'll wait for four hours." He whined, but his eyes told a different story. He looked happy—truly distracted from everything that had been bothering him for the first time in quite a while.

"Mm... Can't say I would've minded having you all to myself for another four hours." Spain whispered, out of breath, just loud enough that Romano could hear it. He turned a most delicious shade of tomato red, and Spain couldn't help himself. He wiped a drop of sweat from his love's brow, leaned closer to those sweet lips...

"Sirs, can I check your seat belts please?" Romano jolted away at the stewardess's voice, almost hitting his head on the window in the process. Spain resisted the urge to growl and turned to face the interruption. _¡Joder!_ First France, now this! He was never going to be able to kiss his own boyfriend at this rate.

"Of course." He managed to keep his tone civil, but his smile was nothing less than lethal. The woman quailed under his gaze, made a show of checking both their belts, and marched off to bother the pair in front of them. He sighed and glanced at Romano. Sure enough, the Italian was staring resolutely out the window, back to his usual angry self. "Lovino…" Spain tried, reaching out for that tense shoulder.

"They better get this plane going soon, or I'm putting a hit on someone." Romano flinched away from his grasp, voice fraught with embarrassment and nervousness and too many other things to identify at the moment. He knew he shouldn't feel hurt by that tiny rejection; this was just the way Romano was, the way he'd always been. He had been embarrassed and so now he was going to pull away and act distant and… but it hurt nonetheless.

"Oh." Spain tried to come up with some witty retort to distract Romano with, but "oh" was the only thing that he could think to say. He stared at the back of the seat in front of him and tried to gather his composure again. Why was it that Lovino's every gesture affected him so deeply? It was a part of love that frightened him almost as much as it thrilled him. He heard Romano shift in his chair, nearly jumped out of his skin when that slender hand suddenly found his own.

"Don't get used to it." The brunette was still turned away, staring resolutely at everything but Spain. His ears were bright red. Antonio smiled. Even if he knew it to be true, it still surprised him when he realized just how well Lovino knew him. He leaned back against the cushy first-class leather seat and closed his eyes. They were going to be on this plane for a while. He might as well make the most of it.

* * *

The meeting room was silent for a long while after Germany left. Hungary looked at the place he'd been sitting not moments before and sighed. She wondered if telling him the truth had been the right thing to do—the hurt and confusion had been plain as day on his face, and she didn't like to see him that way. He was still an important part of her crazy little family, whether he remembered himself or not.

"I suppose I should put dinner on." Austria looked distracted as he pulled away from the table. He was probably just as worried about Ludwig and Feliciano as she was. He tried to hide it, but he was really just a big sweetheart on the inside. He secretly thought of the two younger nations as family, even if he admonished her for saying the same.

"I'll help." Hungary chimed, trailing after her ex-husband. After all these years it was still strange to think of him that way; as an ex. She felt closer to him than that. Their relationship was too complicated to be described by such a simple and unfeeling prefix. They weren't completely separated; never had been. Even when she hated him, his pain was her own. He was inescapable. A large part of her quietly hoped that he felt the same way.

"You don't have to do that," Austria stated half-heartedly as he held the door open for her. He obviously didn't want to be alone right now. Doubtless the ghosts of his past were haunting him, probably because of that painting. Even Hungary had to admit that seeing Germany hold it and look at it like he'd never seen it before in his life was a little… it stung. But Austria was ever the gentleman. Even when he lost Holy Roman Empire the first time, he hadn't shown a single "improper" emotion. He'd simply locked himself in the music hall for days and filled the house with melancholic melodies.

"Are you kidding? Of course I do! I know my way around that kitchen better than you do," she teased, knowing it was worth it to see the tiniest glimmer of a smile on his lips. "Besides, I want Gundel Palatschinken and you don't make it right."

"Hungary, that's a dessert. It hardly counts as a meal." Austria was giving her that disapproving look—the one that had always made her either want to smack it away or kiss him senseless.

"What are you talking about? It's a _perfectly_ good meal." She settled on being equally irritating, lending her voice the sing-song tone that he knew would drive him crazy.

"We are not having pancakes and chocolate syrup for dinner," he deadpanned as though the conversation were already over. Hungary sputtered. She'd never heard her favorite national food described in such a plebian way.

"Who says?" She could see the tension bleeding away from Austria's stiff shoulders. They hadn't bantered playfully like this in a long while, and she was glad to see she could distract him from the pain they were both feeling.

"Says the man who will be cooking a very sensible Austrian dinner, that's who." Hungary laughed.

"You won't be cooking anything if I get there first!" It was the only warning she gave him before tearing down the hallway. She could hear him not far behind, shouting all manner of reprimands and disapprovals. The fact that he was running after her at all said more than words could; he wouldn't usually trouble himself with something so undignified.

"_Stopp, _Hungary, I mean it!" Anyone else probably would have quailed at the tone in his voice, but she could hear the laughter hidden behind those words.

"Gundel Palatschinken, Gundel Palatschinken!" She made up a song to the words as she ran on, effectively drowning out Austria's protests. They flew down staircases, knocking over priceless items in their mad dash and not caring one whit. Hungary felt freer than she had in a long time—her prolonged illness little more than a pinprick of discomfort in the back of her mind. Who could think about a stupid cold at a time like this, when she'd actually gotten Roderich to play along?

"God help me, Hungary I'm going to strangle you!" He was getting closer, but the kitchen was _right there_ and she couldn't deny the exhilaration she felt at the thought of beating him at something.

"You're too slow!" She cackled just as she was about to reach the doorknob, "I'm afraid it's gundel pala—" Austria managed to catch hold of her skirt as she pushed the door open, sending them both tripping into the room. They landed in a mass of struggling limbs on the floor, neither one ready to give up just yet. Hair was pulled on both ends, and Austria would probably have a very interesting looking bruise on his left arm in the morning, but neither one really cared about that. Somehow in the midst of all of it, laughing like a loon, Hungary managed to escape—most likely because she'd knocked Roderich's glasses off. The moment she was free she was staggering away, climbing up on the cabinets and reaching for the flour.

"Oh, no you don't!" The brown-haired girl had only just managed to get a hand on the bag of white powder before Austria was pulling her down. She shrieked and tumbled into his arms, bringing the flour down with her. Fine white dust exploded everywhere, coating the entire kitchen in a layer of the best flour money could buy.

There was silence for a few moments, no one moved. Hungary coughed out a puff of white. And then Roderich lost it.

"You—Elizaveta you should see your face!" The normally composed nation was laughing so hard he was crying, he had to lower them both to the floor because his knees were too weak to stay standing. She had missed that sound _so much_. He hadn't called her by her human name in far too long a time. It was his way of distancing himself from her—of dulling the pain she knew he had felt when she left. Back then she had wanted him to hurt, even though it had cut out her own heart to see him that way. Something had gone wrong between them. He had stopped listening to her, hadn't respected her people or even seemed to care about them, and for that she had _hated_ him. But now… Roderich gasped for breath and used one hand to try and dust the flour from her face. "Are you alright?" He asked, voice still thick with laughter and his eyes dancing in mirth for the first time in what seemed like forever. He was smiling at her just _so_—just the way he always had centuries upon centuries ago—and she forgot that she'd ever hated him at all.

"Fine," she murmured, not really sure if she could bear to look into his flour-covered face without jumping him right then and there. She maneuvered herself so that she could stand without stepping on him and waltzed to the pantry to pull out the broom. Austria coughed a bit, slid his glasses back on, and brushed himself off.

"Don't worry about cleaning up." His voice was back to its austere tone, but now Hungary could hear the potential for that unrestrained joy in each word. How had she missed it before? "I'll have to vacuum later." She had to suppress a snort at the thought of Austria trying to vacuum up all this mess, but left the broom alone. It wasn't likely to help much, anyway.

"Oh look," she mused, "there's another bag of flour in here. I can still have my Gundel Palatschinken!" Hungary moved to swipe the bag, but found her hand stopped by a larger one. She blushed.

"I don't think you'll have much luck with that." He was right next to her ear, his breath warm against her neck. Was he doing this on purpose?! He didn't sound any different from usual. His tone lacked the deep, rich ring it always had when he was trying to get her all worked up.

"Wh—why not?" The words were coming more out of habit than anything else. If anyone had asked her what she'd just said, Elizaveta wouldn't have had a clue. She was too busy watching the way Roderich's hand covered her own.

"Because I am out of chocolate." He ducked when she play-hit him, and took the flour from right in front of her for her distraction. Hungary put her hands on her hips and did her best pouting expression.

"Aw… but I wanted sugar for dinner." There was a decidedly sexual tone to that sentence that they both decided to ignore.

"I might be persuaded to make Kaiserschmarrn…" She could see his mouth twitching at the corners, but knew he wouldn't be losing control of himself again so soon. Still, the fact that he _wanted_ to laugh was a good thing.

"I thought you weren't going to let me have dessert yet?"

"Well, it is getting awfully late to eat dinner."

"Right. And Franz Joseph liked it, which means that it is the perfect food for every occasion, no?" They teased each other back and forth as they moved to gather ingredients and cooking items. Strange how easy it was to return to the way they'd always been, moving like a single unit around the room. He didn't have to tell her to step out of the way or to hand him anything, she just did it. She _knew_ him. Maybe it was unusual, but Hungary couldn't help the relief she felt at the thought. Without the politics and the nationhood and the mess of economy, they were just people, just Roderich and Elizaveta. Why had she ever forgotten that?

"Roderich," she had just handed him the sugar. He almost dropped it at the use of his human name, but recovered amazingly well. "If you and I had never been nations at all, do you think—do you think we could have…" Hungary trailed off, biting her bottom lip and searching his face for the answers. She wasn't really quite sure what the question was in the first place, but she needed to hear him say _some_thing. They'd been dancing around their relationship for years and years and years, neither one willing to talk about it. The man in question went completely still for a few moments before sighing and returning to the task at hand. He didn't glance her way.

"It's pointless to think about things like that." She wanted to get angry at him for such an unfeeling, typical _Austria _answer, but hearing the pain in his voice made that impossible. She could see it now, in his posture, in his eyes. Did he too still think of their messy past, and wonder where it had all gone wrong?

"Please, just humor me," she pleaded, desperately praying that she was right. Nothing was ever straightforward with that man, she had to be always guessing and seeing and determining what he really meant. Just for once, just _once,_ she wanted to hear the truth from his lips. He didn't say anything for a long while, and when he did it was almost so quiet that she couldn't hear it at first.

"Perhaps…I think…I—" His wandering eyes found her own, and suddenly it was all she could do to keep breathing. "If I had met you back then, and we didn't have to worry about the fates of millions of people with every action we took, then I… yes. We would have been happy." Hungary could see that it had taken a lot out of him to admit such a thing. Her heart beat painfully in her chest, bitterness and love and regret rising up until she thought for sure it would consume her.

"Yeah," she choked out, trying to ignore the tears ruining her flimsy smile. "I kind of thought that too." He didn't attempt to comfort her and she didn't want him to. She just let herself cry until the emotions were spent, breathed in the quiet for a few seconds, and went back to what she was doing. Maybe she wished they'd had some kind of choice about all this, about how they were forced to exist and the unreal amount of responsibility placed upon their shoulders. But the truth of it was that they had never had any say—they were simply along for the ride. Best to realize that now and live with it instead of moping about for an eternity.

"How does apple sound?" Austria's voice sounded nearly as strained as hers did. He had his back turned to her, working diligently to separate some eggs. It was a mundane question, but the fact that he was trying to distract her made her feel a bit warmer inside.

"That sounds wonderful." Hungary smiled, and moved back to the pantry to retrieve the apples she'd seen there. He was almost always over-stocked with the finest food. It was the one area of life he _hadn't_ tried to save money on. Well… except for his music. She grabbed a bag of bright red apples from the second shelf, was just about to turn and close the pantry door when she saw what had been sitting behind them: a rather sizeable stack of pasta. Austria didn't really like pasta. It must have been a gift from Italy or perhaps leftover from the last time her little brother had been here. How long ago had that been, she wondered. Hungary tried to think of the last time she'd seen Feliciano and realized that she couldn't remember. They must have met at a world meeting at some point, but she just… had it been that long?

"Is something wrong, Hungary?" She must have taken too much time to bring the apples back because suddenly Austria was standing in the doorway, staring at her in concern. He looked at her like that a lot lately, ever since she'd fallen into tough times. Every time she so much as coughed he was there watching as if to make sure she wouldn't fall apart. It was comforting in a way, but sometimes she wished he would look out for her because he wanted to and not because he thought she was dying slowly.

"No," though she didn't sound so sure of it herself as she handed him the fruit, "I was just thinking about Italy is all." He seemed to visibly tense at the reminder, his eyes staring off into nothing.

"Ah," He murmured before taking his ingredients and waltzing back to the counter. Obviously the younger nation's mysterious illness was bothering him just as much as it was her. She followed him back into the room and set herself to helping him peel. They worked together quietly, nothing breaking the silence between them but the sounds of the knife moving across ripe fruit. It was comforting, but lonely. She couldn't help but feel that part of their broken family was missing.

"Do you think…they'll both be alright, won't they?" Austria winced before schooling his features into a blank look.

"I don't know. It has nothing to do with me." He said the words a little too quickly, and she could see that he was hurting himself with them. Maybe it was true that Ludwig and Feliciano's lives were none of their business, but Austria obviously wished somewhere deep down that he could help. It was his hubris that limited him from doing what he wanted. Germany and Italy had left him here alone. He couldn't allow himself to care for them after that kind of slight. Hungary had always hated how prideful he was before, but she'd learned to accept it as a part of him—her kind-hearted, arrogant, _idiot_ Roderich.

"You know," she mused as she picked up another apple, the wheels in her head turning. "We really didn't get much done at that meeting today."

"Yes," He glanced at her, eyes full of suspicion. She grinned.

"Maybe we should try again tomorrow."

"Hungary, what are you—"

"And since Germany was so inconsiderate today, I say it's his turn to host, don't you?" His face slowly smoothed out as her meaning registered, relief flooding his posture. He'd never say it, but he wanted to be there for them as much as she did. Lucky for him she'd learned how to get around his pride.

"I suppose that's not an unreasonable idea." Austria tried to make himself sound as aloof and aristocratic as possible, but it was kind of hard to see him that way when he still had flour on his nose. Hungary laughed, leaned closer and brushed the white dust away. Maybe it was _unreasonable_ but she… looking into his eyes, it was easy to believe they might not be as finished as everyone thought.

* * *

"…Feliciano-san did _what_?" Greece woke slowly at the sound, blinked a few times and tried to remember where he was. The first thing that he noticed was that he was face down on a table of some sort, and that he was very warm. "That's awful!…do you know what's wrong?" Hmm… that sounded like Kiku's voice. But why would the raven-haired nation be in Europe? There weren't any meetings coming up were there? "No he… he hasn't said anything to me for a while, actually." Oh no wait, he vaguely remembered deciding to go to Japan yesterday because he'd heard that Kiku was hurt. He'd set out to take care of his friend and help him recover as quickly as possible. "Is he ok?" But then, if that was true, why was he the one sleeping? "Right…no, I understand." Greece sat up with a start, tried to ignore the crick in his neck that came from sleeping face first on the kotatsu. Japan sat across from him looking no better than he had when Greece fell asleep. "I—would it be weird if—do you care if I come to visit?" He didn't know what was going on right now, but the last thing Japan needed to do was travel. "Of course. I will see you soon." Japan hung up the cell phone with a final sounding _clack_, rested his head against the table and sighed. He really did look exhausted.

"What happened?" Greece's voice was still thick with sleep as he asked. He didn't like to see his friend look so out of sorts. He'd come here to help out but… it seemed like all he could do was watch Kiku drive himself further into the ground. His command to rest had not been very effective; Kiku had slept for all of twenty minutes when his phone rang, and that was that. He'd been working ever since with no regard for his own health, drafting emergency legislation and making phone calls left and right. Greece tried to help but… language barrier aside, he'd never been what anyone would call a productive worker. He got in the way more than anything else.

"I finally got a hold of Ludwig-san." Ah, good. Japan had been trying to reach his friends nearly all day. That call from Romano this afternoon had truly worried him. "Feliciano-san is really sick." The statement was scarcely audible, muffled by the kotatsu. Japan sounded truly upset. Greece frowned. It didn't quite make sense.

"But Italy's comparatively stable at the moment. He shouldn't be—"

"I know." Japan inhaled sharply as he pushed himself back up onto his feet. Greece wondered if his head was hurting him again. Was it time for another dose of medicine already? It seemed like he'd just taken one a few minutes ago… of course, Heracles had fallen asleep, so maybe it had been longer than he thought. He had no idea what time it was, except that it was dark outside. "That's what has everyone so worried. If it were because of his economy, that would be one thing, but because he's like this now there has to be something else going on..." He could only watch as Kiku moved stiffly around the room, gathering a small bag, a change of clothes, his passport.

"You're not going to Rome _now_ are you?" Greece stood slowly, trying to regain the feeling in his legs. He paid no mind to the cat that fell out of his lap and yowled in annoyance. There were other things more important at the moment.

"No, I'm going to Berlin. The only reason anyone knows that there is something wrong is because Feliciano-san collapsed outside Ludwig-san's house." Japan looked guilty as he spoke, and Greece knew he must be blaming himself for not knowing something sooner.

"That's not really any better. You're leaving right now?" Japan froze at the question, eyes going wide with realization.

"Ah, Heracles-san! I had not thought about what you would do should I leave. ほんとにごめんなさい! Please feel free to stay here until a more convenient time, there is food in the refrigerator and I can leave you some yen if you wish to go—"

"Kiku." Greece interrupted, striding over to his friend. He took the bag away, sat it on the ground and caught Japan by the shoulder. He could feel the unnatural heat of fever through the fabric of Kiku's shirt. "I'm not worried about that. What I meant, was that _you_ are sick too. I don't know if it's a good idea for you to go gallivanting off to Europe at… what time is it again?" Japan had the good grace to look sheepish.

"Around two." He muttered, swaying a little beneath the taller nation's hand. Greece blanched.

"What? No wonder you look so exhausted!" He swept Japan into his arms with one smooth movement, carried him over to the futon which still sat unrolled on the floor. That Japan hadn't bothered to roll it up earlier was a testament to how frazzled he really was. He was usually so meticulous about everything. Kiku yelped in protest at being man-handled in such a way, his face bright red, and Greece suppressed the urge to laugh. Maybe Kiku was completely oblivious to the world, but Heracles wasn't. He saw the way the dark-haired beauty reacted to his advances, knew that he had a special place in the nation's heart even if Japan didn't know it himself yet. "Sleep!" He commanded once he'd gotten the blankets all properly organized. Japan opened his mouth to argue. "You can worry about Italy in the morning." Greece cut him off, leaning in to give him a kiss on the cheek just to make sure he would be too shocked to move for a while. Maybe if he got Japan to sit still long enough, he would just pass out.

He mentally congratulated himself on figuring out a way to keep Japan out of trouble, and tried to walk away. It was a dirty trick, but hey, it was for Japan's own good, right? He only got half-way to the guestroom door before Kiku snapped out of it. The sick nation stood up too quickly and nearly fell over. He would have if Greece hadn't rushed back to catch him.

"Kiku, _please_ listen to me. You can't—"Japan pushed his hands away at the words, his weak form made strong by some inner force.

"My friend is sicker than I, he might have been for some time, and I would never have known it!" And here was the root of the problem. Kiku's guilt wouldn't leave him alone. He felt that he'd wronged his friend somehow and he had to fix it immediately or die trying. "You understand, don't you? That I want to be there for him? After all, you—that's why you came to visit me, right?" The dark-haired nation's face was flushed with passion, all traces of exhaustion completely gone. Greece didn't often get to see him like this—full of righteous fury and ready to fight for what he wanted. But those rare occasions only made him want to pin the man to the nearest flat surface and show him what passion really meant.

"No." Greece smiled dangerously, took a step closer to the one he'd wanted for what seemed like forever. "That was different." At least, he hoped it was. He'd seen the way Kiku acted around Italy, and he didn't think their relationship had tipped its way into love. Besides, Italy was head over heels for Germany. Everyone knew it but them.

"D—different?" _Θεός_, how could anyone be this naïve? Kiku was so adorably innocent that sometimes Greece felt like a dirty old man for longing after him this way, let alone the fact that Japan was technically older.

"_Nαι_," he purred, just beside Kiku's ear. "Quite different, I should hope." He had to fight not to tackle Japan right here and now. It was hardly the time for this sort of thing. Japan's face was positively radiating heat. He was upset, and worried, and he really didn't need Greece making things more difficult by throwing confessions of undying love at his feet. Still, Heracles couldn't stop hoping that maybe he'd been just obvious enough that the object of his affection would finally, _finally_ get it.

"Why's… why's that?" Kiku was looking at him with wide eyes, and Greece thought he might see hope and doubt warring within those depths. He sighed, placed a gentle, perfectly chaste kiss on his friend's cheek and took a step back. Let Japan draw his own conclusions. He would figure it out eventually, and when he did, Greece would still be there.

"It doesn't matter," He whispered, even though it hurt his heart to say it. "Now, what else do you need to pack?"

"What?" Japan was a darker shade of red than Greece had ever seen him. He forced himself not to laugh and wondered if he'd broken the poor Asian's brain.

"To go to Berlin. What else do you need?"

"I—my wallet I suppose, just…what are you—why are you—" Greece couldn't help it any longer. He laughed long and hard at the expression on Kiku's face as he found the object in quesion and tossed it into the small bag. If being forward like he had made Kiku _this_ flustered, he would have to do it more often. The nation was entirely too cute.

"I know you. If you really want something, you don't stop until you get it." He handed Japan the bag, watched as he twisted the strap nervously. "So if you want to go to see your friend? We'll go." Japan blinked.

"We?"

"You didn't think I was going to let you fly off to Europe in the middle of the night, _sick_, all by yourself?" Japan started to complain, but Greece stopped him with a finger to his lips. "Besides, I came to see you, not your house. If you're leaving, I don't have any more reason to stay." Greece had to scramble to catch his friend before he fell over once more. He fervently hoped it was his words and not the illness that had Kiku swooning like this. He picked the nation back up again, bag and all, and started marching toward the door. "You're out of that medicine, by the way. We'll have to pick up some more on our way to the airport." Japan clutched on to his kidnapper's shirt, knuckles white with tension.

"You're not going to _carry_ me the whole way, are you?!" He sounded positively mortified, but that didn't really bother Greece much. Japan was usually embarrassed if Greece was involved. It was simply a part of their relationship.

"Don't think I've forgotten that you are supposed to be sleeping right now." He mock glared at Japan, allowing himself to get a little closer to that blushing face than he probably should. "So I'm going to get us to Berlin, and you are going to _rest_ like I've been telling you to all day!" Kiku blinked up at him, almost as though seeing him for the first time. For once, he didn't get nervous and freak out because of their close proximity. In fact, he did something quite the opposite. He leaned up and placed a ghost-like, butterfly's breath of a kiss on Greece's cheek.

"Thank you, Heracles-san." He spoke softly, his breath tracing too warm patterns against the Hellenic nation's bare neck. And then, before Greece could even remember how to breathe again, he passed out.

Greece shifted his friend's weight until he could free one arm, pinched himself, _hard_, and wondered whether Japan's unemployment rate was catching. If this turned out to be nothing more than a fever dream tomorrow, he was going to be crushed. But for now… for now… He held Kiku a little tighter, a little closer to his heart, and set out on the short trek to the train station. Maybe Japan wasn't quite as naïve as he gave him credit for.

_

* * *

_

He surveyed the battleground, trying not to look into the glassy eyes of his soldiers as he counted the dead. There were far too many, as there always were. Enemy and ally alike lie slain in a mess of blood, tears and earth. They almost looked peaceful, in a macabre way. Their blank faces were a strange juxtaposition to the contorted bodies, did not portray the violent ways in which they had died. He was beginning to wish he could join them. France's latest push for glory was simply the longest in the list of wars he'd had to fight, just the latest megalomaniac's quest to rule over them all. He supposed he couldn't judge his brother's actions harshly, even if it would make it easier to have someone to blame. Hadn't he too once wanted to rule the world?

_He wondered why he'd ever set out on that fools quest, to unite them as Rome once had. He had wanted to make another golden age, a bright future where they could all live in peace, as one… but with the smell of gunpowder and blood still lingering in the air he realized how just how idiotic that dream was. True peace couldn't be created with an iron fist, and even if it could, what kind of peace would that be? Would all that death, all the orphans and ruined land and mourning widows justify the few decades of prosperity that they bought? He knew now that the answer was no. Why hadn't he been able to see that when he was younger?_

_Italy had known it, he thought bitterly. Italy had known from the start, had tried to warn him against such ill-boding dreams, but he hadn't listened. He wondered how the pasta-loving nation was faring—they hadn't seen each other since that last time. At first he'd been too busy taking over the world to see his friend, but now… Even if he hadn't been frantically holding France off, he was too ashamed to face Italy again. His hands were too drenched with blood to reach out for that kind of innocence. He hoped the brunette was ok. Last he'd heard, France had imposed himself there too, and more than anything he wanted to right that wrong but he just wasn't good enough. He didn't have that kind of power in the world any longer._

_He gave up on trying to count the bodies on the battlefield and made himself sit down before his legs gave out. It wasn't that he hadn't seen worse battles than this, but his vision was starting to swim, his whole body aching. He'd lost too much, too quickly. Two entire armies decimated, most of his territory now the property of upstart France… Every soldier's death was a mere pinprick of pain against his skin but there were __too many__ and he didn't know how much longer he could bear the agony of it. He grew weaker with each mile lost, body covered in wounds from the constant military strife and the hardships of his people. Death was coming for him. He could feel it in his bones._

_"There you are!" He glanced up with hazy eyes to see Prussia walking towards him. He hated to admit it, but he'd grown close to the idiot nation over the years. Prussia was one of the few who'd stood by him; even if he was controlling and far too enthusiastic about war._

_"How many?" Prussia didn't have to ask what he meant after so long fighting. _

_"Between us and Russia both, about 30,000." More than a third of their forces, then. He laughed. It rang hollow and eerie against the background symphony of carrion birds._

_"And I'd be willing to bet that most of them were mine." The silver-haired man said nothing, and he knew he was right. Well, of course he was. The sharp, throbbing pain in his chest could have told him as much._

_"I don't know kid," Prussia sighed after they'd been there some time basking in the silence. "I don't think we can take too much more. First Ulm, now this…" He trailed off, staring into the mess of bodies. The blond glanced at him and wondered what would happen to his older brother figure when everything was said and done. Would he keep fighting, or would he decide to settle down and abide by France's rules? He wasn't quite sure which option was worse, but looking at Prussia's face… even though he couldn't see straight any more, he could tell that there was no less passion there. The idiot would probably keep battling until his dying breath. "The emperor is talking about asking for a truce. He sent Austria over to negotiate." He sounded absolutely livid at the thought, and the younger nation couldn't help but smile. No, Prussia would never stop fighting. He was far too "awesome" for that._

_"Well," He murmured once his lungs stopped burning enough that he could talk, words filled with a bitter sort of joy. "At least it will finally end."Prussia's red eyes flashed with anger. He lifted the smaller nation by his coat lapel, snarled, but the blonde's twisted smile did not fall._

_"It will not 'end', idiot. Far from it. If France wins, this will only be the beginning of the torture your people will have to face, do you understand that? You can't give up yet."He could feel Prussia's hands shaking against the fabric, knew that the one who'd become like a brother to him was worried about him, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He was __so__ tired of all this mess. He might have the appearance of a child, but he'd been around for nearly nine hundred years now, and lived through that many centuries of famines and wars and death. He just wanted… peace. Real peace. _

_"Maybe." His voice was hardly a whisper on the frigid air. "But I don't think I will be there to see it."Prussia must have seen the resignation in his face because he suddenly found himself dropped on failing feet. He wobbled over, fell gracelessly to the bloody ground. His legs were too weak to support his own weight; he'd lost the last of his strength and he knew it. There was nothing left. "This was my last battle. After tomorrow, the Holy Roman Empire will cease to exist."_

_"Don't say that!" Prussia sounded positively terrified, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He could feel death on the horizon, and he would welcome it with open arms. "Damn it, I will __not__ let you die!"He stared up at the sun from his place on the frozen ground, surprised that it still shone joyous yellow despite the gore and tragedy all around them. It reminded him of Italy, as almost everything did these days. He had always been like that—ready with a smile no matter the situation, warm and gentle and kind. In this messed up, war-torn life, Italy was truly the only light he'd ever had._

_He tried not to choke on the regret that flooded him at the thought of his childhood love, wondered masochistically if maybe Italy was thinking of him too. Would the nation be saddened by news of his death? It had been so long ago since they'd seen each other last… would Italy even remember him at all? Just because he was completely hung up on the memory of his best friend didn't mean that Italy would be too. The brunette would move on, he was sure, probably had already. He ignored Prussia's worried shouts, closed his eyes against the frightening scenes all around him and thought of his love's beautiful face. _

_"We'll see each other again, we will! We really will!" The words echoed out to him from a dream, adding a warmth to his smile that had not been there in years. It would have been nice to see Italy one last time, but he knew he didn't deserve that. He only wished… If Italy just thought of him every once in a while, it would be enough. He prayed that his friend would remember him fondly, even if he knew it was little more than a dream. The dying nation curled into himself against the frozen earth, body seeking some kind of warmth as he shivered with exhaustion. He couldn't feel Prussia's hands on him, didn't hear his frantic commands to stay awake. _

_It was stupid to wish that things had gone differently, he wasn't so naïve as to believe in second chances, but… He couldn't help but imagine a world where he'd never left Italy's side—where he was protected and peaceful and safe, he could paint as much as he liked, and he ate pasta every day with the boy he loved… Sunshine and laughter chased him into oblivion._

Germany blinked slowly back into awareness, unsure of what the hell he'd just seen and debating whether he even wanted to know. He put his head in his hands, closed his eyes and breathed deeply for a few seconds. It was… that dream was so real. He'd _felt_ the pain running through his body, had understood every thought, known every emotion running through the dying nation's head. If he were crazy, he might say it was more like a memory than anything else… but that just wasn't possible. It must have been a dream, brought on by Austria and Hungary's crazy theories, and the sight of that portrait. The power of suggestion was great; he'd probably just taken what Austria said and crafted a picture from it. It was a convincing delusion, but that was all it was. He fervently denied the tiny voice of reason in the back of his mind that said there was more to it than that.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, we are about to touch down in Berlin. Please make sure your seatbelts are fastened, your chairs are in the upright position, and all electronic devices are turned off." Germany rubbed his eyes and sat up straighter in his seat. It didn't matter. Worrying about memories and not-memories wouldn't get him anywhere. What was important was getting to Italy's side as soon as possible. He didn't have time to be dithering about, wondering who he really was. Italy needed him, and that was that.


	5. Together Again

OH MY GOD IT'S FINISHED! and what a finish it is! This chapter is a veritable MONSTER. It could almost have been split in two!

Holy crap. I'm actually crying right now. I'm not sure I like it but…. It's my baaaaby!

Well guys, it's been fun, but we've finally come to the end! I can't believe I actually _finished_ a story! Haha! (is far too proud of herself) Hope that the ending is up to your standards.

This story was _greatly _inspired by Nico Nico videos, in particular 真っ赤な糸、ギブス、and Persona Alice. If you haven't seen them, I highly suggest that you go watch them IMMEDIATELY! :D

Note about the chapter: I'm aware that some people say that HRE thought Italy was a girl, but it's really quite vague and for sake of ease, I'm just gonna say that he doesn't. Sorry if that tees some people off, it just didn't fit in the story.

Huge shout out to my marvelous repeat reviewers, especially Full Shadow Alchemist. You guys were the reason I could keep going! If it weren't for you, I would never have gotten this done. Italy REALLY didn't want to be written, there at the end….

Thanks for everyone's support, and please enjoy the last chapter!

Don't own, don't sue.

PLEASE REVIEW!

oh! Almost forgot. Anyone who read the last chapter early on, might want to go back and check the very end. I added an extra scene with Germany there because it didn't fit in this chapter. *sweatdrop* sorry for the inconvenience!

* * *

Germany drug himself off the plane, fully intending to get home, make sure Feliciano was ok, and then _pass out_. It had been a long day, first because of the hangover, then his confusion over the Holy Roman Empire and now all this mess with Italy… Any time he tried to rest, he only came out of it more tired than before; worry and lingering depression made his dreams more like nightmares. He was _exhausted_

.

The blond pulled his phone out of his pocket as he walked, turned it back on more out of reflex than anything. He immediately wished he hadn't. "10 missed calls" flashed blaringly up at him and Germany groaned. If one more thing went wrong today, he was going to kill someone. He was just about to check who'd been calling him when the blasted thing started ringing _again_.

"Hello?" He answered it without looking at the caller, ducked into a nearby waiting area to try and filter out some of the noise. Even though it was getting closer to one in the morning, there were still _way_ too many people roaming the airport halls to have a decent phone conversation.

"_Ringrazio Dio!_ _Finalmente ha risposto!__Ho provato a chiamare__ tutto il giorno, dove—"_

"Romano?" Germany used process of elimination to figure out who was calling him: there were only two people who ever began a phone call by shouting in rapid Italian, and he had it on good faith that one of them was currently asleep in his bed. "English, please?" It wasn't that he didn't speak Italian, Feliciano had been teaching him for years and he was pretty confident in his skills. But something obviously had the older Italian brother upset, and that made him talk much faster than normal. As it was, Germany had no idea what he was currently being accused of.

"Germany, you had better tell me you know where the hell my brother is, or I _swear_ to _God—"_

"He's at my house." He heard Romano heave an audible sigh of relief and then he _knew_ something was wrong. The day Romano was glad to hear his brother was staying with the famed "potato bastard" was the day hell froze over. "He got there about six or seven hours ago. Why, what happened?" Romano uttered the Hail Mary in Italian under his breath and somehow seemed to make the prayer sound more like a curse.

"I expected my brother to be here waiting for me to get home," Germany could hear the exhaustion in Romano's tone, knew that the other nation must have had just as long a day as he had. "Instead I found the place a complete mess. Pills all over the kitchen floor, and—there's broken glass in the sink! I thought he'd been _kidnapped_!" The worry in Germany's chest only deepened with each word; Feliciano would never leave his kitchen like that. "Did you… why is he at your place? Did you just… steal him? Is that what happened?" He could actually _hear_ the glare in Romano's voice.

"No, I've been at Austria's house all day." He wondered how long the brunette had spent trying to get a hold of him, worrying over his absent brother. In all honesty he was surprised that Romano hadn't called the police. "I don't know much more than you do. Prussia called me to say Italy had wandered to the house and passed out on the front step, so I—"

"_What?!"_ Hmm…. Perhaps mentioning Feliciano's illness to his over-protective, currently frantic brother had not been the smartest of ideas. "I knew it! I knew it, goddamn it all! I never should have left him alone last week!"

"You left him for a _week_?" Usually when Romano took off for any amount of time longer than a day, he would have his arms full entertaining one lonely Feliciano. That the Italian hadn't called him lately was strange enough, now that he thought about it, but for him to stick it out on his own was even more… god he must really have been sick to decide to stay home. Italy hated being alone more than anything in the world.

"Idiot convinced me he would be fine. Besides, I thought he'd go visit _you_." They both sat in silence for a minute, trying to figure out just what had happened to Feliciano. "…wait a minute. Why _didn't_ he go visit you?" It was a question Germany wished he could answer himself. He shifted the painting and bag in his arms before sitting down on a nearby chair. It didn't look like he was going to be getting out of this conversation any time soon.

"I don't know." He sighed, turning the portrait away from himself so he wouldn't get lost staring into it again. Romano growled.

"What the _hell_ did you do to my baby brother." Germany was a bit confused by the rapid change in emotion. Romano's tone was back to the way he usually heard it, angry and unforgiving, but this time he didn't have a clue what he'd done wrong.

"I don't know what you're talking abou—"

"The _hell_ you don't!" Romano sounded close to tears. "Feliciano hasn't even been_ eating_. There is a stack of rotten ingredients in my fridge right now, exactly where I put them before I left. He let the tomatoes rot, Germany. The _tomatoes!_ You are the only person with that kind of power over him!" Germany felt fear run down the back of his spine, guilt overwhelming him even if there was no real reason for it. He didn't want to hear that, didn't want to know Italy had been so upset that he wouldn't eat his favorite food, when he _still_ didn't know what the heck was wrong in the first place.

"I agree that it's worrying, Romano, but I honestly—"

"He was crying." His heart skipped a beat. He closed his eyes against the image that statement brought and forced himself to think clearly.

"Well he… Feliciano cries about a lot of things, it could have been—"

"No, Bastard. _Really_ crying." Germany swallowed thickly. "He was trying to hide it from me, but I could hear it in his voice. I could tell. I can _always_ tell." The evidence of Italy's pain was just building and building… why hadn't he realized that something was wrong? Why hadn't he figured it out sooner? If Italy hadn't have fallen unconscious at his door step, he would be oblivious still… had he really been that self-absorbed? "Now, Germany, you are going to think, real hard, and then you are going to tell me exactly what you did to make my brother cry."

"I haven't—" Germany choked on the lump in his throat, had to start over again. The mental images of sick, heartbroken Italy were piling up faster than he could bear. He didn't even like watching Feliciano cry over untied shoelaces. To know that there was actually something worth crying over made it a thousand times worse. He wished he had been there. He _should_ have been there. "I haven't even talked to him in a couple months, I couldn't possibly have done anything." A strange silence fell over the line. Then Romano started cursing up a storm.

"_Cretino! Pezzo di merda_ _bastardo! _Don't you understand anything at all?" No, Germany thought resentfully, he didn't. But he wished more than anything that he did. "You can't just ignore him like that! Did you ever stop to think how much that would hurt him?'

"I didn't ignore him," He protested, though his heart secretly agreed with Romano. He was feeling more and more that this whole thing was somehow his fault. "He just… stopped calling."

"And you didn't think that was strange at all?" He'd been too wrapped up in his own problems to think much of it, to be honest. But Romano was right. If he had been thinking at all, it would have worried him. "Look, Germany, I will say this once and once only. I absolutely loathe you, but even _I_ can see how much my brother needs you." He didn't quite know what to think about that. Feliciano depended on him a lot to be sure, but… that was all for silly things; the "can you tie my tie for me?" sort of requests that anyone else could have done just as easily. It was nothing that Feliciano actually needed _him_ for—needed Ludwig and not just some other person.

"That's not… I'm not that important. He has lots of people he—"

"Has your brain finally been completely replaced by muscle?!" Germany's frown deepened. Usually Romano's insults didn't faze him, but he was tired, and irritable, and he really just wanted to get _home_.

"Romano, I don't care what you think. I have no idea what is wrong with your brother except that he has somehow managed to get himself very sick. And I can't tell you anything more than that until I actually get to _see_ him. So I am going to hang up, and I will call you if I find anything out." The brunette scoffed.

"God, you really don't get it do you?"

"I mean it. I am hanging up in five seconds." This conversation was going nowhere, all it was doing was make him feel more guilty and worried and sorry for himself than he already did. He'd call Romano back in the morning if he still had questions.

"Fine, I'll say it so that even an idiot like you can understand." Germany rolled his eyes and started counting.

"One… two…"

"Feliciano is in love with you, Germany." His mind screeched to a halt. "Even _I_ can see it. Why the hell can't you?" That wasn't… it wasn't possible… Feliciano had only ever shown a friend's interest in him before, anything else and he was just fooling himself. Italy would never…

But then he was seeing flashes of Italy's smile, of all the times Italy had trekked up from Rome for no other reason than he wanted them to have dinner together, of the way Italy was forever clinging so tightly to his side, and no one else's. Maybe… but that was just—

"_I'll wait. I'll always wait."Italy looked so happy, face covered in a cheery blush that he knew he must be mirroring. He almost couldn't believe that this was real. He'd been afraid for so long of telling Italy how he really felt, that he was completely blown away when his feelings were returned. He only wished now that he could have admitted it sooner. They'd both been dancing around each other, wasting time for ages and ages. Maybe if he'd gotten over it and stopped trying to scare Italy into liking him they could have been together all along. _

_ He felt like jumping for joy—he'd kissed Italy!—but even still, his heart ached. What if this was the last time they ever saw each other? What if—_

"Germany? ...Germany? …Godamnit, the bastard hung up on me!" Romano's dulcet tones brought him back to earth, and it took him a moment to remember where he was and what he was doing.

"No," Germany coughed, shook his head to get the delusions out of his mind. "No I'm still here, sorry." Having crazy painting-influenced visions while asleep was one thing, but he had never been one to daydream. "What were you saying?"

"Oh, screw you. I'm not saying it again." The blond blinked and tried to remember what they had just been talking about. Oh right, that Feliciano…loved… The sight of the Italy in the painting looking up at him in adoration flashed before his eyes, and it was almost enough to make him break down. He couldn't admit to himself how much he _wanted_ that.

"Not possible," he whispered, trying to get his emotions back under control. Whether he was talking about the memory dreams or Romano's accusation he wasn't really sure.

"God, you are so _dense_. No _wonder_ my brother is upset." Romano sounded ready to scream. "Don't you think if there was even a _little_ bit of doubt, I'd be the first to deny it? I _hate_ you, but it's the truth. He's sick, and who does he go to? Not me, not anyone else, you. Even though he had to go through half of Europe to get there. He always goes to you, have you not noticed at _all_?" Germany frowned and covered his eyes with one hand. He'd never even allowed himself to think of Feliciano in such away; the Italian was too important to him to lose. But the thought of Feliciano caring about him was… emotions he wasn't even sure he had were stirring in his chest, and he knew that if this all turned out to be a cruel joke he would never be able to put himself back together.

"Why are you telling me this?" he choked, ignoring how much like a girl he sounded right now. He blamed it on those psycho dreams for putting feelings that weren't his own in his head.

"Because as much as I hate it, he needs you more than he needs me," Romano mumbled, sounding as though he would rather be anywhere else. "Look, that's all I'm saying, alright? You'd better fix this, Bastard. Fix it _now_ or I will do everything in my power to see your entire country fall, do you understand?" It wasn't a very effective threat at the moment, but it didn't have to be. Germany would do whatever he could to make Feliciano happy, no coercion required. It had always been that way.

_ "Italy," he called frantically as he ran through the house, his small feet pattering against the expensive rug floor. Austria would scold him for "acting in a manner unbefitting of a nation" he was sure, but he didn't care about that at the moment. He hadn't seen Italy in nearly four days, not cleaning the floors, or fetching water or even stealing food from the kitchens, and he was starting to feel that something was very wrong. "Italy!" he shouted again, making himself sound as imperial and frightening as possible to disguise his worry. He heard a small, weak sound from the door he'd just run past—the door to Italy's room. Frowning, he twisted the handle and stepped inside. _

_ "Hi, Holy Roman Empire."Italy greeted, usual cheer strangely absent. The brunette was still in his night clothes, laid up in bed with stacks of pillows and blankets. "Is something the matter?" Italy coughed, whole body shaking, and he felt all the blood drain from his face; he'd never seen his friend like this. _

_ "No, I just wondered where you…" He stopped himself before he could say anything too revealing, twisted his hands in his cloak and blurted, "What's wrong with you?"_

_ "The plague, I think." Italy coughed again into his hand. He looked so pale and fragile against the white sheets that it hurt to look at him. "It happens every once in a while."Italy shrugged, but the blond knew there was more to it than that. He knew intimately how it felt when so many of your people were dying all at once and you were powerless to do anything about it. He didn't like the thought of Italy going through that kind of pain but he could see the agony reflecting out from amber eyes plain as day._

_ "You—do you…" He swallowed his pride and forced himself to say it. Maybe he would get yelled at for this later, but he hated to see Italy unhappy. "Do you think if I helped you to the kitchen, you could teach me to make pasta?"Italy's expression lit up like it was Christmas morning and he couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief. _

_ "You would do that for me?"He nodded; face a brilliant shade of red that he would completely deny later, but for now it was worth it. And even though the dish they'd made had proved too rich for Italy's sick stomach and he threw up all over Austria's favorite chair, even though he'd been scolded by Austria __and__ Hungary and had been forced to do Italy's chores until he got better again, it was totally worth it. Anything was worth it to banish the pain from those eyes. _

"Hello…? Hello! Are you even listening to me?!" Germany growled out a yes and wondered whether he was losing his mind. Maybe it was just the lack of sleep. "You know what, screw it. I take back everything I said. I don't trust you with my brother. I am coming there right now to bring him home." He very much felt like bashing his head into the nearest hard object. The _last_ thing he needed now on top of everything else was an angry Romano tearing through his house. "Ow! Goddamnit Antonio, put me down." Germany blinked. He heard what sounded like a bit of a scuffle on the other side of the line. "I do not need to sleep. I am perfectly capable of—hey!" He had to hold the phone a bit away from his face as the altercation apparently grew violent. Romano shouted a few times, growled out angry insults in Italian and Germany wondered what on earth was going on before everything went suddenly quiet. He gave it a few more seconds, figured that someone must have hung up accidentally during the fight, but he'd never heard the line click, so…

"Are you still there?" Someone who sounded like—was that Spain?—picked up the phone. Germany raised an eyebrow. What was Spain doing at Romano's house?

"I'm here," he dragged the words out, voice filled with confusion. "What just happened?"

"What Romano meant to say, was that he is very tired from travelling all day, and that we will be there to visit after everyone has gotten some rest." He wondered what kind of miracle Spain had worked to get Romano that quiet that fast, and then decided he probably didn't want to know.

"Okay then." Germany elevated Spain's status in his mind from vaguely annoying to saint. Anyone who could control Romano like that deserved it, no matter his tactics. "I will see you tomorrow." The Iberian nation wasted no time in saying goodbye and Germany was finally able to hang up. He picked his things back up off the floor, shoved his phone in a pocket and started tearing through the late-night airport crowd. Getting to Italy had just become more important than ever.

He was lucky enough to get to the line of taxies just as a new one arrived, climbed in with little fanfare and told the driver where to go. The ride to his house seemed to fly by, occupied as he was with his own thoughts. Italy's malady bothered him something awful, and more than once during the journey his mind had jumped into another strange vision, each one stronger and less deniable than the last. He didn't know what to believe anymore. At first he'd thought that Austria and Hungary were nuts for thinking what they did, but now his resolve was starting to chip away. He hated this—wanted to put an end to the indecision and the lack of identity once and for all. He'd spent his whole life secure in the knowledge that he was _Germany_ simple as that, but now that security was being stripped from him and he wasn't quite sure what to do about it.

He pushed those thoughts away as they pulled to a stop. He didn't have time to be worrying about himself anymore; that was what had gotten him into this mess in the first place. Right now, he just needed to think of helping Feliciano.

"_Danke,_" he murmured as he shelled out the taxi fare. The driver nodded back and before he knew what he was doing he was practically running up the short walk to his front door. It wasn't locked. Honestly, Gilbert could be such a _dork_ sometimes. Germany pushed it open with a glare—he'd yell at his brother for forgetting later—and made his way into the unusually quiet house. The place was never this silent with Prussia around. He was always playing music or watching TV or something. Germany suspected that maybe Gilbert had a thing against being alone, but he'd never voiced his speculations and the silver-haired man had never confirmed them.

He wondered where Prussia had gone, but only at the back of his thoughts. Far more important right now was finding Italy and making sure for himself that his friend was alright. He didn't know for sure where Prussia would have left a sick person. First he checked the couch; it would be just like Gilbert to leave someone in the most uncomfortable place just because it was the most convenient. However, there was no one there. He was just about to rush to the guest bedroom when he felt the sudden urge to check his own room. Surely Prussia wouldn't have left Italy in there when they had a perfectly good guest room down the hall… Okay, never mind, that sounded exactly like something Prussia would do. Germany pushed the door open as quietly as he could, stepped inside and sighed in relief. There was a distinctly Italy-shaped mass curled up beneath his blankets.

He set his things down gently against the wall, moved closer to the tangled mess that was his bed. Prussia had brought in one of the chairs from the dining room to sit by Italy's side, and there was a bowl of cool water, wet rag, thermometer and bottle of pills on the nightstand. He had to admit he was a little surprised. He knew his brother wasn't a complete idiot but it had been a while since Prussia had last proved it. Germany took a seat in the wooden chair, reaching for the blankets where Feliciano's face should be. The brunette usually made a mess of his covers—he had never been very still as he slept. Germany remembered waking up to a knee in his side more than once in the times they'd had to share a bed.

Logically, he knew Italy was probably alright for the moment. Gilbert had apparently been taking care of Italy quite well, and if something had _really _gone wrong, he'd be at the hospital right now and not at home. Still, he couldn't help the need to make sure for himself that Italy was really ok, that he was actually still here. Maybe not seeing the nation for over a month had affected him more than he'd thought. He pulled back the blanket, hoped he wouldn't wake Italy with his stupid quest for reassurance, and felt his heart break.

Italy looked every bit as worrying as Prussia had described. His face was flushed with the remnants of fever, eyes lined with telltale dark circles. He looked a little thinner than Germany had last seen him, and even in sleep his brow was lined with stress, mouth curved in a tiny frown. Germany covered his face with one hand in an attempt to stifle the hurt, couldn't help but reach out for his sick friend with the other. He brushed damp strands of hair away from Italy's pallid brow and tried to figure out where to go from here. He'd never seen Italy like this. Not during the World Wars, or the people's revolts or the countless plagues and occupations that had filled their history. He—

Germany paused, rewound his thoughts a bit. He hadn't really known Italy well until World War I—_long_ after Italy had been dominated by anyone else or beleaguered by medieval pandemics. And yet he could still see perfectly the image Italy cut as he suffered through the Italian Wars, his tiny hands clenched in pain as he felt the suffering of his people. He _remembered_ watching his friend cough until his palm was covered in blood, and thinking that maybe this time Italy wouldn't make it through. It wasn't a flash of someone else's life passing clear and movie-like before his eyes. It was as integrated as his own recollections, in all their jumbled, slightly hazy glory. They were _his_ memories, _his_ thoughts. And he had to accept that the emotions thrumming loudly though his heart now, the worry and the fear and the _love,_ those were his too. Not new or unknown as he'd thought earlier, but so ancient and ingrained in his being that he hadn't realized they were there.

"Finally, you made it back." He jumped as Prussia finally made his presence known. The older nation must have been in the kitchen all this time, because he was holding a mug of steaming coffee in one hand. Maybe he'd been coming back to watch over sick Italy, Germany wasn't really sure but at the moment he didn't care. All he could think of was that Prussia had been there in the vision of battle and death that had shaken him earlier. Prussia knew what had happened to the Holy Roman Empire. He'd also been the first person Germany saw when he awoke to the world, not knowing anything but his own name. Prussia _knew_. Germany narrowed his eyes, stood slowly from the wooden chair and waltzed across the room. He pushed his brother back out again, ignored the resulting yelp about spilled coffee, and closed the door behind him with a gentleness he didn't know he was capable of at the moment. He wanted answers, and damn it all, he was going to get them.

* * *

"Ow! _Scheiße_, that's hot. Jesus, West" Prussia tried to shake the burning coffee from his hand, wondering what the heck had gotten into his brother this time. He didn't know what problem Germany could possibly have when he'd been so careful about taking care of Italy. "That was a nice hello. Do you do that for all your friends?"

"Explain, Prussia." He jerked, eyes going wide at that tone in Germany's voice. It was passionlessly commanding, hard, cold—like ice. He'd only ever heard one person who could throw out orders like that. He turned his head slowly to face the sound, hoping that maybe he'd just imagined it, but Ludwig's expression only backed up his fears. It was like staring into the past. Prussia gaped for a handful of minutes before he had to tear his gaze away, shivered once or twice as the sensation of seeing a ghost trickled like ice through his veins. He never thought when he'd picked up the Holy Roman Empire's cold body from the December ground all those years ago that he'd ever see that look again.

"Explain what?" He asked, voice wavering. But even as the words left him he knew what this was probably about. If Germany was wearing that expression then he'd probably found out about his "past life". Prussia slid slowly down the wall of the hallway, setting the coffee down beside him once he'd made it all the way to the floor. Germany didn't follow his example.

"Why do Austria and Hungary think I'm someone else?" The angry nation towered over him. Prussia swore inwardly. Those traitors. They'd all agreed it would be for the best if Germany didn't know. "Why am I starting to believe them? Why can I remember—" Germany's voice wavered, and it made Prussia's heart ache to hear it. "Why do I _remember_ the dark ages, the crusades, the Renaissance?" He bit his lip, turning his face further toward the wall. What was he supposed to say?

"I have no idea." It wasn't completely a lie, either. He'd never thought his brother would regain those memories, didn't know what had managed to give them back over the course of a single day.

"Cut the bull, Prussia. I know you were there. Austerlitz, December 1805. Russia and the Holy Roman Empire made a last stand against France and lost. The Empire ended, and you were standing next to him when it happened, sound right?" He shook, tried to banish the image of his best friend dying right in front of his eyes. "So what happens between then, and the day I woke up to find you hovering over me?" Prussia growled and clenched his hands into fists. He hated thinking about that time, that war. It had been more than two hundred years since then, but he could still see the ghosts of those battles forever haunting his mind. That war hadn't been the worst, or even the most terrifying, but… the look on his brother's face alone in those last days had been enough to scar him for life.

"Well you seem to know everything already, _Germany,_" He emphasized the name, angry that he was being interrogated like this and wanting to lash out in some way. He hadn't felt this powerless in a long time. "Why don't you figure it out? It isn't that hard."

"So it's true then." Germany seemed relieved and more upset all at once, and Prussia had to wonder just what was going on inside that thick head. "I'm… I actually went through all those things. The memories are mine." He couldn't stand hearing West sound so… fragile. He told himself to stop being such a coward, forced himself to look into those too-blue eyes instead of glaring into the wall. Two people seemed to stare back. Prussia swallowed thickly and tried not to cry. He'd never, _never_ thought he'd see that face again. It was only now that he realized how much he'd missed it.

"Yeah," He coughed to cover the trembling of his voice. "Yeah, I'd say so." Germany let himself collapse against the opposite side of the hall, wound up sitting at an angle because his legs were too long to fit comfortably otherwise. Prussia was almost feeling delirious enough to laugh.

"Why did you lie to me?" West sounded so much like the imperial child in that moment that it was hard to breathe. Prussia knew there was no way he could lie this time.

"Because you—back then you…" He bit his tongue, took a few seconds to sort out his thoughts. "There were some days when I would look at you, and I could see on your face that you wanted to lose that war. You were wearing yourself to the bone those last few years—didn't eat, didn't sleep… It was like you were just waiting to die." Germany didn't say anything to deny it. Instead he focused intently on the small square of floor between them, eyes distant with memory. God knew what horrors were playing before him now. "When you woke up, looked at me with those big blue eyes and asked me who I was I just… You looked like a _kid_. You weren't a weary soldier or a fallen king, you weren't broken or hurting or anything like that. You were just… just _you_, West." Prussia choked on his own thoughts, had to sit there in the silence for a bit and breathe before he could talk again. "Maybe it was wrong, but I wanted to keep you that way."

They remained like that for a long while, wrought with emotion, eyes seeing too much of the past. The seconds ticked on like hours and Prussia thought for sure that this time he might have finally crossed the line. What if he'd made his brother hate him? If he were honest with himself he probably deserved it—he'd been lying for so long that he'd almost forgotten the truth. He wished he could make Germany understand, but he didn't think any words could possibly convey the way he'd felt, looking at that innocent, completely blank child and wanting more than anything to keep him from hurting ever again. The silence was beginning to feel heavier and heavier against his chest. He thought he was going to go mad with suspense until finally, a ghost of a smile flickered across Germany's face.

"..Thanks," West muttered, almost too quiet for Prussia to hear. It was so different from the anger he'd expected that he was nearly too shocked to pay attention to the words that followed. "I would have appreciated the truth but… I think I know what you mean. Trying to keep people safe makes you do some pretty stupid things, I suppose." Germany was looking straight at the bedroom door as he spoke. He was probably referring to Italy, but Prussia didn't really have the mental capacity to think about things like that at the moment. He swallowed his surprise, refused to admit to the wetness gathering in the corners of his eyes because that would be decidedly un-awesome. Instead he focused on the mug of hot coffee still steaming by his side.

"'m not stupid." He protested weakly, attempting to find his usual persona again. West laughed, and that made everything a little more worth it.

"I'm not so sure about that." He deadpanned. "You _did_ leave the door unlocked again." Prussia rolled his eyes, picked up the caffeinated beverage that he had been studying so intently and passed it off to his dork of a brother.

"With this mug, I hereby transfer custody of one sick Italian to you. I know you wouldn't sleep with him like that right now anyway, you pathetic lovesick bastard." Instead of shouting angrily at the jibe like he usually might have, West just blushed. Prussia _grinned_. So he really _had_ remembered everything. Oh the possibilities… this was going to be _so_ much fun after the world had calmed back down again, even if it would be annoying to have Feliciano invading their house even more than usual. Germany stood quickly in his embarrassment, almost spilled the coffee again in his haste to get away. "Hey, do you think your kids will have that weird curly cowlick thing too?" West opened the bedroom door as quietly as he could, then turned back to flip Prussia off with his free hand, his face bright red. Gilbert couldn't do anything but laugh.

* * *

Italy stared up at the ceiling and tried to get his thoughts back together. He wasn't sure what he'd just been dreaming about, but he could feel the teardrops still lingering on heavy lashes, his heart beating too fast in his chest. His emotions were a mess and he didn't care to wonder why. He was just glad that for the first time in a week he hadn't been forced to remember _that_ again. He bit his lip, fought against the wave of guilt that welled up within him at the thought and schooled his thoughts back to blank oblivion. It was almost easy to block out the world and focus on the steady in and out of his own breathing, tired as he was. His mind was feeling so sluggish that he probably wasn't fit for much else at the moment anyway.

By the time he'd gathered the pieces of himself back together enough to think again, he realized he had no idea where he was. The last thing he remembered was going to Berlin, and then… Prussia had said Germany was away, and then he'd woken up here. Had he blacked out? Italy covered his eyes with one hand in embarrassment, angry with himself for being so weak. He'd probably caused Prussia a lot of trouble. God, what was he _thinking_ when he set out on this fruitless venture? He'd known from the beginning that he was only being selfish, that he would only be annoying everyone by leaving the house. Once he figured out that he'd forced Prussia to take care of him he felt even more… Wait. If Prussia had taken care of him, then that meant…

Italy sat up sharply, ignoring the protests of his body. He knew these walls, the feel of these sheets, the smell of paper and sweat and those weird sausages. This was Germany's bed! He still wasn't sure how he'd gotten here, but he needed to move _now_ or he was going to go crazy. Being here when he knew Germany wanted nothing to do with him was just too much. He tried to leave, moved to untangle the blankets wrapped around his body and found that he could not. Something warm had pinned his hand to the mattress. He turned slowly, his mind in disarray. Who would be here? Prussia wasn't quite weird enough to hold on to his hand, so—

All thought froze when he saw the person beside him. Ludwig lie passed out in a nearby chair, his face resting against the bed. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Italy mused that it didn't look very comfortable and that Germany should really take better care of himself, but he was too shocked to pay much mind to that. What was Germany doing here? Shouldn't he have been in Austria right now? Unless Prussia had lied to him, but he didn't think the white-haired nation was prone to that sort of thing. And even so, why… Italy's gaze strayed to the items at the bedside. He recognized all the implements used to treat the sick, realized that he could no longer taste the fever burning at the back of his throat. Had Germany been taking care of him? And then he noticed that _Germany was holding his hand_, of his own volition, without any annoying pestering from Italy….

It was a wonder his mind didn't implode. He sat stiff as a board, staring at his best friend and wondering just what had happened while he was out. Maybe Ludwig was just having a weird dream, or something. He didn't care like that, didn't want Italy around enough to—

"_I promise," _The phrase echoed back to him from a dream he thought he had securely locked away, and Italy jumped. He remembered the way _that _person had flickered to Germany, couldn't stop himself from imagining both faces at once. He'd always seen the similarity, had always done his best not to think about it. He couldn't afford to fool himself like that. His first love was dead; he _knew_ that. Trying to hold onto that memory by forcing Ludwig to become someone else was selfish and pathetic. Germany wasn't Holy Roman Empire. Pretending that he was wouldn't do anything but hurt everyone involved.

But when Ludwig was wearing that tiny grin at his side, hand pressing warm and familiar against his own, dreaming expression completely free of worry and pain… He looked so much like that innocent child from an eternity ago that it _ached_.

He tore his hand from Germany's before it grew to be more than he could bear and tried not to feel guilty when Ludwig frowned in sleep. He couldn't stay here—not when thoughts of that person were clouding his mind and making him more and more likely to do something he would regret later. Besides, Germany probably had better things to do than look after an invalid. He'd just go back home where he belonged and forget about this whole thing. Italy did the best he could to get out of the bed without shaking the mattress much, managed to extricate himself from the blankets without an abundance of noise. But when he tried to get up, he found himself pinned back against the pillows.

"Not happening." Germany was awake and glaring at him from the bedside as he gently held Italy down. "You are _not_ leaving this bed until you are completely and totally well again." The brunette paled to a color that was nearly whiter than the sheets. He didn't know if he could handle this. Germany was far too close—he had to look away before he broke down.

"I need to go back," he murmured, fighting back against Germany's grip enough to sit up again. "I forgot to leave a note for Romano and the kitchen is—"

"I already talked to Romano. He knows where you are, don't worry." Italy felt the panic rising like bile in his throat and he didn't know what to do. "You realize things would be a lot easier if you could just remember to take your cell phone when you leave the house, right?" His breathing came faster and faster, vision swimming. He'd resigned himself to the fact that Germany didn't care and now being the victim of this act hurt worse than anything he could imagine. He couldn't do this. Not when he was praying for Ludwig to look at him with someone else's eyes. "Are you ok?" Germany lifted a hand to test Italy's forehead for fever, frowned when he found nothing. "Italy? What's wrong?" It was the last straw. He almost thought he could _hear_ his heart break.

"Stop. Stop it, please." He begged, shaking Ludwig's hands off and drawing into himself. Even being alone was better than this sweet torture. "I can't… I understand, so just stop pretending, _please_." He was too busy trying to hide his tears to watch Germany's reaction. Being weak was one of the things they all hated about him. He refused to show weakness now.

"What are you talking about?" Germany sounded genuinely concerned and that only made it worse. Italy thought he'd _known_ Germany, known when he was upset and when he was annoyed and when he was happy. If he couldn't see past the act now, then how much of their relationship had been a lie to begin with?

"_That_. Just… It's ok if you don't want to be around me anymore, so please don't—" he had to cut off or risk dissolving into sobs. Maybe he was overreacting but he was still exhausted, still a little ill, and he felt so _alone_ even with Germany sitting next to him that it was hard to think.

"Italy," the blond began, his voice hesitant. "What made you think I—oh." He seemed to understand some important truth then, but Italy didn't care to know what. He murmured something that sounded suspiciously like "Romano was right," although why _anyone_ would ever say that Italy didn't really know. He laughed hysterically at his own ridiculous thoughts for a second—a pathetic, half-sobbing sound—dried his tears on his arm and tried to leave again. Germany's hand caught his sleeve.

"Ludwig, _please_. I can't—" Italy begged as he struggled against his once friend. He couldn't escape. He didn't know what to _do_ but he couldn't take this. "You don't want to see me anyway, so just—"

"That's not true!" He froze at Germany's tone, not sure why he should hear pain in that voice. The stupid desire to fix everything welled up within him and he couldn't help but turn back around. Even if Germany didn't care anymore Italy still couldn't bear to see him hurt. "Yes, I've been avoiding you for a while but it was only because I was being a coward." Germany faltered, his words filled with self derision. Italy thought he might see tears in those blue eyes and he had to wonder if he wasn't just going crazy. "I kept thinking of all the mistakes I'd made, everything I'd done wrong and I just thought… I was afraid that somehow you'd see me the same way I did, and then you'd hate me." Germany laughed at himself. It was bitter and self-derisive and Italy didn't like the sound of it at all.

"I…" He looked hard at that beautiful face as his thoughts raced. He wanted _so badly_ to believe those words. Germany looked so sincere and worried that he almost did, but he just couldn't. He wouldn't allow himself to. If he believed in even one more lie, he would surely break. He shook his head to banish the longing, tried to pry Germany's fingers off of him. "Why are you still—do you think I'll be upset if you leave? Is that why you're doing this? Because I'm not upset at all that you don't care!" Italy spoke the words, but way they were marred by sobs probably betrayed his true feelings. "I'm not…I—"

"Italy," Germany's hand wouldn't budge. Italy's struggles grew more frantic. "Italy, please, If you could just—" He almost had it. Right… there! He tore away from Germany's grip, made a break for freedom, and then the world shifted. Germany had tackled him to the bed, was just managing to hold him there without hurting him. Italy had to wait for the dizziness to clear before he opened his eyes, but then he quickly closed them again. Germany's face was _far_ too close to his own and he was afraid he would do something stupid. "Just _listen_ to me!"

"I can handle it if you want me gone, but when you pretend to care I can't—" Italy blurted, choking on his own tears. He felt Germany sigh—the warm breath brushing gently through his hair.

"Italy. I _promise_ you. I will never 'want you gone.'" Italy tried to block the words out. He distracted himself by thinking of all the things he had to do when he got home, didn't admit to the hope building within him. "Because I…" Germany was struggling with something, his voice unsure. Italy cracked one amber eye open against his better judgment. Was that… was Ludwig _blushing_? "I love you."

It was so unexpected that Italy didn't have time to worry about truth and lies. All he knew was that Germany had just said three words that he had been longing, _needing_ to hear for centuries. He stared wide eyed at the man before him and tried to remember to breathe. "I…" Germany swallowed thickly. He seemed like a wreck of nerves. Italy didn't think he'd ever seen unflappable Ludwig this shaken before. "I have always loved you. Ever since the 900's, I've always loved you." And Italy froze, heart in his throat. He was hallucinating. He _knew_ those words. He'd tortured himself with them for centuries. Never, _never_ had he thought he would hear them again.

"Wh—_what_?" His mind had completely stopped functioning in that instant. He could feel his every muscle on edge, tense with the hope that maybe this wasn't a delusion. There was just—no _way_. It had to be a joke or something. It wasn't… "Not…not possible!" Italy whispered, tracing Germany's features with one hand as if to make sure he was real. He looked so much like the Holy Roman Empire in that instant…It hurt.

"I thought that too, at first but I… The more I thought of you, the more I remembered." Germany met his gaze head on, and Italy inhaled sharply. He could _see_ the truth and the need and the—the love in those eyes. "I don't remember everything. I'm not sure that I want to. But I do remember you." Ludwig's expression was so caring and open, completely raw and he wasn't sure how to deal with it. "And I love you. I love you so much that I can't—"

Italy couldn't help himself any more. Germany _loved him_ and that alone was enough to send him into euphoria for weeks, but now the Holy Roman Empire was back from the dead and they were the same person and he didn't have to feel guilty about thinking of them that way any longer and he—Ludwig was in love with him! He didn't know what to do with it all. He pulled Germany down, clung to him like his life depended on it and sobbed. Germany seemed to understand what he needed and said nothing, just held Italy with equal desperation. They stayed like that until he cried himself out. He opened his eyes, pushed away just enough that he could see Ludwig's face again.

"It really _is_ you." He murmured in awe, afraid that any second now, he would wake up at home and discover this had all been a dream. Germany nodded, smiling, and Italy's heart beat quickened. He grinned back weakly, tried to remember how to keep breathing. He knew he must look like a complete and utter mess. His nose was running, his eyes were probably red and he was still feeling a bit sick. But Germany had said he loved him all the same. Germany had said he loved him… suddenly Italy realized that he'd never said it back. "Germany," he started, screwing up his courage and hoping he wouldn't sound like a sentimental fool. "What do your people give to their loved ones?" and then he was moving before he could lose his nerve, leaning up to press his lips against his loved one's after so, _so_ long.

The kiss was perfect. Just like the first one an eternity ago, but _more_ than that because of the loneliness and the longing and need. It started chaste, just a declaration of love, but soon grew to be something passionate—so hot that it burned. They'd been only children then, but now they were both adults with centuries of pent up emotions running amok through their veins. He wanted to draw Ludwig closer, hold him so tightly that they'd never be apart ever again. Hands were everywhere, setting a fire against his skin. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, and couldn't say he cared. For the first time in forever, Italy felt like he was actually _complete_.

"—can't tell me what I can't do. He's my _brother_ and I'll wake him up whenever I damn well—_Oh my god_!" It took Italy a moment to recognize his brother's voice. Germany seemed to be thinking a bit faster, however. He quickly ended the kiss and turned a marvelous shade of red, burying his face in Italy's shoulder. Whether he was angry or embarrassed, Italy couldn't quite tell. Someone laughed and he chanced a look at the door. There stood Spain and Romano, both looking more than a little surprised. He didn't think he'd ever seen Romano go that color before.

"We-est I'm sorry! Watch out, I tried to stop him but he—" Prussia stumbled in and he felt Germany wince. "Oh-ho! Decided to figure out my question early, I see." Italy tilted his head.

"Question?" Germany growled, and he could feel it vibrating in his chest. He shivered.

"You don't want to know."

"Hey, where'd everyone go—Oh!" None other than Hungary was peering over Prussia's shoulder, her eyes dancing frighteningly. "Roderich! Roderich, did you bring your camera?" She shouted down the hall to someone, presumably Austria, before knocking Prussia out of the way and taking up a less-crowded position in the room.

"Why do you want the—oh for crying out loud, Elizaveta." Germany's face only seemed to be glowing brighter and brighter with every person who stepped in the room, and it was starting to get comical.

"I can walk fine on my own, Heracles-san, I really don't need you to—" The third member of their famous trio stumbled into the room, being trailed closely by Greece. He looked like he was still wearing the robe he usually reserved for sleeping.

"Ah, Japan, my partner in crime!" Hungary called, waltzing over and pulling him into the room. She held her hand out as if expecting something. To everyone's surprise, Japan pulled a camera out of his sleeve.

"When did that get there?" Greece seemed to share everyone's bafflement as Hungary started snapping photos. Germany had turned such a bright shade of red that Italy wondered if he was still breathing.

"Was that really necessary?" Austria grouched. Hungary shot something back and the two were soon absorbed in their own world, bickering back and forth. Romano had, by this point, broken out of his shock.

"Let me _go_, Antonio! I'll kill him! I'm going to Kill him!" But Spain had other plans, and they apparently involved an impromptu wrestling match in floor of the doorway. Japan swooned.

"Kiku, if you don't get back in bed _right now_ then so help me I'll—" Whatever Greece was saying got cut off as the other two arguments rose to a crescendo. Prussia had made the mistake of trying to break up the ex-married couple's spat and they had both turned on him instead. Romano was shouting, which easily drowned out the sound of everything else. Italy felt Germany sigh.

"Such a mess." He spoke in Feliciano's ear, breath caressing Italy's bare neck and making him tremble. No one noticed.

"It's the good kind of mess!" Italy chimed, feeling like himself for the first time in months. Germany raised an eyebrow. He was a bit of a neat freak, and probably didn't think that "a good mess" could possibly exist. "It means I can do _this._" Italy pulled the blond down again, kissed him thoroughly until they were both gasping for breath. "And no one will care." The surprise on Germany's face faded to a wicked smirk and Italy's heart skipped a beat.

They fell into each other, kissed until the world stopped going mad around them and they were the center of attention once more. There was still a lot of hurt and guilt and needless worry to sort through, still questions to be asked. But for that time, with family and friends all around him, in the arms of the only one he had ever loved, Italy felt as though nothing could go wrong.

"Ever since the 900's, I've always loved you," He whispered next to Germany's ear somewhere between kisses. It was probably a little cheesy, but he _meant_ it, and the answering smile was truly beautiful to behold. He was filled up with love, ready to burst with it and somehow he felt that he would never be lonely again.

"_Get off my brother, you potato freak_!" Romano broke away just long enough to lunge at Germany, but fell short when Spain grabbed the back of his shirt. "Goddamn it Antonio! I swear, if you don't let me go _this second_ I will—" Spain pulled him in close for a passionate kiss of their own, which seemed to turn Romano into a puddle of goo. Everyone else stopped what they were doing to watch, sure that the older Italian would explode. He didn't. When the kiss was over, he simply turned an even deeper shade of red. Feliciano laughed so hard that it hurt.

"We'll see you in a few hours." Spain told them all with a grin, sweeping Romano into his arms with one smooth movement and walking out the door. Hungary made a cat-call after them.

"Oh for the love of—Elizaveta _please_." Austria covered his eyes with one hand as his ex-wife giggled.

"Don't use my room!" Prussia shouted before taking off after them.

"Japan, I'm borrowing this for a while, kay?" Hungary stated sweetly, waving the camera in the air before chasing the strange couple.

"I don't know her. She is a complete stranger to me." The aristocratic man sounded exasperated with her antics, but everyone there could see the tiny smile on his face. "I am glad to find you well, Italy." He muttered quietly before exiting the room. Italy blinked in surprise at the rare show of care. Austria hadn't said a thing like that to him since… not since he'd lived in the Holy Roman Empire's house.

"Feliciano-san I—" He turned to face Japan, was confused by the guilt in the Asian man's expression. "I am a horrible friend! I am so sorry! I didn't know you were upset, I didn't realize you were sick, and I should have—"

"Whoa!" Greece managed to catch his best friend before he fell to the ground. Italy looked at him in worry.

"Kiku, really, It's ok." Italy smiled, grateful to have such good friends.

"No, It isn't I should have—" Kiku shook as though cold, his voice wavering. Italy was incredibly touched that his friend had made a journey all the way from Japan sick like that, just to see him.

"We'll talk about it tomorrow. Why don't you listen to Greece and go rest for now?" Japan looked like he wanted to protest, but Greece took the opportunity to swoop in and force Kiku back to bed.

"See? I told you." He teased, supporting most of Japan's weight on his shoulders. Italy watched them leave and wondered when they would finally get together. The door closed behind them with a final sounding _bang_. He felt Germany noticeably relax against him.

"Well _that_ was only one of the most awkward moments of my life." The blond grouched, pulling Italy in to finish what they had started twice. The same happiness fluttered inside him as they drew closer, closer—

His stomach growled. _Loudly_. Germany paused, gave him a look that could melt steel. "Romano _did_ say something about you not eating." He glared, trying to let Italy know just how much he disapproved of such a thing. Feliciano found it endearing.

"Germany?" He whined, putting on his best puppy-dog look. The man in question sighed indulgently.

"Yes, Italy?"

"Can we have pasta for dinner?" Ludwig laughed in response, a deep, truly joyous laugh that sounded like Germany and Holy Roman Empire all at once. Italy committed that sound to memory, made a vow to hear it every day from here on out.

"Of course." He mumbled against Feliciano's lips before _finally_ stealing another kiss—greedy and burning and wonderful. Like that, Italy couldn't help thinking that, economy be-damned, all was right with the world.

And it always would be.


End file.
